


When Worlds Collide

by jhoom



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (not described in excessive detail), Angst with a Happy Ending, Bedsharing, Bottom!Cas, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Double Penetration, Dream Sex, Drug Addiction, Dry Humping, M/M, Multi, Recreational Drug Use, Substance Abuse, Threesome, Top!Cas, bottom!Dean, mentions of eating disorders, season 12 (mentioned), top!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-14 12:05:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 57,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10536114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jhoom/pseuds/jhoom
Summary: When Zachariah dies, the illusions he’s created die with him.  But before they collapse completely, sometimes they collide. That’s how Castiel goes from cradling Dean Winchester’s broken body one moment, to finding himself face to face with Dean Smith in the next.This story starts in the moments after 2009 Dean is pulled from the Endverse back into his own timeline. We follow Endverse Castiel as he’s sucked into the Terrible Life Verse. Confronted with Dean Smith, Castiel begrudgingly tries to deal with the fact that he’s still alive and that he’s stuck with some strange Dean. (Worse yet, he might be developing feelings for this other man.)But is Castiel the only one who slipped between the cracks between one world and another?  And how and why did Castiel end up in Dean Smith’s apartment?





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys :) This is my entry for the [Castiel Big Bang 2017](http://castielbigbang.tumblr.com/). I in no way intended this to become as long of a fic as it did but... hey, it did, and I had a lot of fun writing it. I'd like to thank both [destielonfire](http://destielonfire.tumblr.com) and [profound-boning](http://profound-boning.tumblr.com) for beta-reading <3 And of course a big shout-out to my artist thearronaut for doing some amazing art for this story ^-^ Check out [her art post](http://thearronaut.tumblr.com/post/159234156065/title-when-worlds-collide-author-jhoomwrites)!
> 
> Come visit me on tumblr [@jhoomwrites](http://jhoomwites.tumblr.com) if you'd like to talk destiel, cas, or really anything. 
> 
> As always, please make sure you guys read the tags. If you're concerned about the MCD warning, I've included spoiler-y details on that in the end notes of this chapter.

**Prologue: The End of the End**

Even as the others are shot down around him, Castiel can’t truly believe Dean had sent them knowingly to their deaths.  Blood runs from a cut at his temple and he’s unsure if the pain from his side is because there’s a bullet lodged somewhere in the flesh below his ribs or if he’s merely bruised.  Either way, he knows this is the end, once and for all.

He leans heavily against the nearest wall, watching the last of the Croats fall and hoping the demons that had herded them in don’t come to investigate.  He’d have trouble fending off humans at the moment, much less a demonic band of Lucifer’s most loyal followers.  Though on the other hand, maybe they’d finish him off and he could get this damn dying business over with.

Soon he’s no longer able to support his weight even with the solid brick behind him, and he slinks to the ground.

Blood clouds his vision.  Trying to wipe it away only smears it all over his hands.  Head wounds bleed too much.  He hates that.  Gonna be a mess when he wakes up.  If he wakes up.  He’s not waking up, is he?

As darkness overtakes him, he spares a thought for Dean and hopes he’s okay.  And even though Dean would no doubt view it as a betrayal, Castiel knows he hopes for Dean’s safety more than for his success.  Give him a live Dean Winchester in a hellish apocalypse come to life than a dead one any day.

He sends a silent prayer to his brothers and sisters and the Father he knows are no longer listening, then passes out.

\- - - -

Fate has always been cruel to Castiel (or at least since that moment when he first laid hands on a lost soul in Hell).  He wakes up both numb and in pain, which is a strange mix of sensations that he wants to blame on drugs.  Not enough of them or too many, but definitely the drugs in his system are making it that much harder to assess his injuries.

Fuck his injuries.

Pushing to his feet, he uses the wall for balance and heads through the abandoned building.  He spares a thought for the time traveling Dean that stumbled into his cabin not so long ago.  But Zachariah—asshole though he may be—will no doubt look after him.   _His_ Dean, however, might need him.  Because though he doesn’t know how much time has passed, it’s certainly been long enough that Dean should’ve come looking for him.  Dean _always_ comes looking for him.

Unless he can’t.

Castiel violently suppresses that thought.  Since the day he gave up his grace for that man, he made a silent deal with the cosmos that he wouldn’t take a breath past Dean Winchester’s last.  Fuck the universe if it would dare go back on that now, after everything.

He pushes open the wreckage of a door that leads out back.  There’s a chill to the air that’s a little too ominous.  Deep in his bones, he knows.  He might not be an angel anymore, but he fucking _knows_.  

Seeing the body, so carelessly discarded as if the man is meaningless…  

Something in him, some fragile little piece of hope that he’d guarded for years, finally breaks.  Castiel’s wail echoes around him, but he’s beyond caring if anyone hears.  Let the demons and the Croats and the devil himself come for all he cares.  

His legs give out they’re trembling so much, so he crawls over to Dean’s body.  He pulls his head into his lap, whining at how lifeless he now is.  If he were still an angel, he could fix this.  Heal the broken parts and give new life to this broken and used shell that once held the most beautiful soul he’s ever laid eyes on.  

But he’s not.  He’s just a fuck up, a junkie doing his best to hold it together.  

Draping himself over Dean, he lets sobs shudder through him, loud and desperate.  Dean’s scent lingers as he gets closer.  Whiskey and blood and the annoyingly cloying scent of roses make it difficult to pick up, but underneath it all is the distinct musky smell.  He pulls in huge lungfuls, savoring it because soon it’ll fade and he’ll never get the chance again.

Time is meaningless as he waits for his own death to come.  He’ll wait and wait if he has to, wither away to nothing because there’s nothing left on earth that could move him from this spot.  He rocks back and forth, cradling the man in his arms and willing for a miracle— _any_ miracle—to make this not true.

It can’t be true.  It _can’t_.

When he does happen to look up, shifting to bring Dean even closer to him, he frowns in confusion.  The world itself has gone grey.  At first Castiel thinks his heartache is making him see things, but no matter how much he blinks, nothing changes.  Color has literally been drained out of the trees and plants, the building, everything.

He turns his gaze to the sky, a mottled black.  Before his eyes it splinters and cracks.  That’s… worrisome, he supposes.  Someone should look into that.

Maybe Lucifer got bored of dicking around on earth and making everyone miserable.  Maybe he decided to end it all for good.  The thought is oddly comforting.  

(There shouldn’t be a world without Dean Winchester in it anyway.)

Castiel questions whether Lucifer has the power to do that, to actually bring an end to the world.  He’s never considered it, assuming his brother’s vanity and posturing that he loves their Father’s creation too much to hurt it would keep him in check.  Humanity was all that was ever at stake when it came to Lucifer.  

As whole chunks of the sky start to break apart along the fault lines, falling en masse to the ground, Cas questions whether he’s completely sober at the moment.  A large chunk of blackness lands fifty yards away and the ground rumbles in protest.  Okay, so yeah, definitely sober.  

He reflexively tries to get Dean closer, to protect him from this madness.  Not that there’s much point, but old habits and all that.  He stays like that, clutching Dean to him and waiting for the world to fall apart around him.  

“I’ll see you soon,” he whispers to unhearing ears, pressing a kiss to Dean’s forehead.  The skin’s too cold, but he ignores it and peppers him with more soft kisses.  “I promise.”

Blinding pain overtakes him as something hits him from behind, then blissfully there’s nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCD refers to the canon compliant death of endverse!Dean (takes place in the prologue) as well as the death of a terrible life!verse Castiel (takes place later on in the story), who is depicted as a minor character.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

He wakes up dazed and confused.  He’s too warm, whatever he’s lying on is too comfortable, and the room is too bright.  

And it feels like there’s a gaping hole where his heart should be, but mercifully he can’t remember why that is.

Groggily he opens his eyes and takes in his surroundings.  It’s an apartment, if he’s not mistaken.  And a nice one too.  Nicer than most he’d had the pleasure of being in back when apartments were actually a thing way back when.  This one is pristine, not a speck of dust or any signs of mold. It’s so jarring to be in a world like this again after making do with so much less for so long.

Everything’s so _bright_ , from the morning sun peeking through the huge floor to ceiling windows to the colors accenting the room.  The sofa he’s woken up on is upholstered in an ivory linen and the throw pillows are tinted in yellows and oranges.  The whole thing reminds him briefly of Heaven (or at least, _some people’s_ Heaven), and the wheels in his head start turning.  While he avoids _that thought_ for now, it’s reasonable to assume he’s dead.  

He’s vaguely disappointed.  Not at being dead.  He doesn’t mind that at all.  He accepted his own mortality long ago, and given the life he’s led he’s surprised it didn’t happen sooner.  But this isn’t at all what he’d hoped death would be like.  Honestly, he can’t decide if this is supposed to be some version of Heaven or some pit in Hell or maybe somewhere entirely different where rogue angels go to wither away for eternity.  

None of these seem like pleasant options, because they’re all devoid of the only thing he wanted from the afterlife.  And failing that, he would’ve at least opted for a complete lack of any conscious thought at all.  

But this?  This is pretty low on his list.  He’s not even sure what _this_ is, but it’s uncomfortable.  He pushes off the couch, taking a moment to steady himself before he bails.  There’s no other plan than getting away from here and then finding out what the fuck is going on.  

Drugs.  Screw finding out what’s going on, he needs to find some drugs.  Pills, alcohol, weed—he doesn’t think he’s in a position to be picky right now.  Because right now he’s able to keep the bad memories at bay, but soon they’ll come crashing down around him and he’d rather be at least partially medicated by the time that happens.

He’s only managed to get a few feet when a noise down the hallway catches his attention.  Reflexively he turns to look and clearly he’s not dead because how could he still have a heart to break if he were dead?  

His world narrows down to a pinpoint as he focuses in on the man before him.  Messy but clean hair.  No worry lines marring his face or dark circles under his eyes.  His physique nothing but well cut lines, not a hint of fat like he was prone to before the apocalypse and none of the malnourished bony-ness he suffered afterwards.  Perfectly manicured nails and a tan that’s too even to be real.  

Yet underneath all that, there’s the inescapable truth that this man, this achingly familiar, beautiful man, is Dean Winchester.  

And very much _alive_.

Dean yawns and presses the heel of his palm into an eye to rub the sleep away.  The movement pulls the edges of his shirt up, revealing more tan skin and abs that are way more chiseled than Castiel’s ever seen them.  He pads across the living room, making a beeline for the kitchen, when he finally catches sight of Castiel.

Their eyes lock and they’re both frozen for a moment.  

“Shit,” Dean hisses.  His shoulders sag and he mumbles something under his breath.  In that instant, Castiel knows this isn’t Dean.  Not his Dean anyway.  

This man, this _apparition_ is just some poor copy.  Some spectre left to taunt him.  Remind him of the mistakes he’s made and all that he’s lost and to rip his heart out all over again.  This must be Hell, because he can’t think of a worse way to spend eternity than trapped here having to look his mistakes in the face every day until he goes mad.

Yeah, he definitely could use some drugs.  He’s not sure there are any drugs known to man strong enough for this particular situation, but he needs something to take the edge off the myriad of emotions running through him.  Despair, pain, anger, irritation, longing, _lust_.  It’s a dangerous cocktail that leaves him trembling slightly as he tries to keep himself from rushing the man.  

Whether to take him in his arms or attack him, well, who knows.

The fake Dean seems unaware of the effect he’s having on his surprise guest.  He glances at Castiel with a look of bemused calm and a forced smile as he says, “Sorry, dude.  Didn’t remember taking someone home with me last night.  Kinda startled me for a second there.”

His voice is deep and sleep rough, but at the same time light and airy.  Unburdened might be the best way to describe it.  It’s all Castiel could’ve ever wanted for Dean and not at all like he’s ever seen him.  

Only then does he parse the words correctly.  “Take someone home?” he repeats dumbly.

“Yeah, I uh…”  He looks adorably embarrassed and Castiel has no idea how to handle that.  Adorable and embarrassed aren’t words he’s been able to associate with Dean in years and it throws him for a loop.  Probably the only reason he stands there and listens as he goes on.  

“Look, I don’t normally drink or take people home from bars or anything.  But we were celebrating closing a big contract at work and damn I hope you had fun because I don’t remember shit.  I haven’t been blackout drunk since early in college.  And now I’m babbling to the cute guy in my apartment and I’m just gonna stop.”

Then he steps forward and offers his hand.  “I’m Dean by the way.  Dean Smith.”

“I know—Wait, what?”

“My name?” he says wryly.  “I don’t remember yours so I figured you might not remember mine either.”  

Castiel stares dumbly at other man, uncomprehending for a moment before he bursts out laughing.  He ignores the hand in front of him and walks past Dean to the kitchen.  “Oh man, fuck my life.  Seriously.”

“Uh, what?”  Without having to look, he knows Dean’s blushing.  He almost looks back to check, knowing how much he loves seeing pink peeking out between his freckles, but it isn’t even _Dean_ so why bother.

Instead he starts rummaging through the cupboards.  “Well, I’m trying to figure out if I’m high or dead or dreaming or hallucinating.  But first I’ll settle for finding something to eat.”  

He hasn’t even found the food (there’s nothing but white dishes everywhere he looks) when Dean snaps his fingers and excitedly walks over to him.  “Wait, I know you.”

“You _did_ bring me home with you last night, so I’d hope so,” he says with an eye roll. Another cupboard filled with what appears to be various flavors of protein powder.  He became well acquainted with such forms of nutrition after the world fell apart and you couldn’t be picky about where your calories came from.  To this day the combination of strawberry and pistachio flavored protein powders haunts him.

He huffs a little at his own exaggeration.  His dreams are of course haunted by much worse things.  He has no doubt what nightmares will plague him every night from now on.  A broken neck and unseeing eyes and a world gone gray—.

“Castiel!”

His attention snaps back to the other man as he suppresses a shiver.  The last time Dean said his full name…  Well, best not to think about it. But this _stranger_ , this person unworthy of wearing Dean’s face and using his voice and claiming his name (a deep breath to calm his growing rage)...  This _person_ is overstepping his bounds, and Castiel grinds his teeth together from saying anything he shouldn’t.

“You’re Castiel, right?  Castiel Novak?”  Castiel raises an eyebrow at that.  “We uh… we went to high school together.  Man, I haven’t seen you since Bela Talbot’s graduation party.”

Castiel stares blankly and wonders what the fuck nonsense this is.  This is a complete mockery of the man he knew and the life he lived.  He’d rather be back where he was, back with _his_ Dean so he could at least give him a proper hunter’s funeral before doing something suicidal like walking into a Croat nest.  

Given the impossibility of that plan, he bangs his head against the nearest cabinet with undue force.  “Ugh,” he groans.  “I think I liked it better when you were dead and I was wallowing in my grief.”

“ _What_?”  Dean marches over and strong fingers firmly hold him still and stop him from hurting himself.  The touch is firm but what strikes him is how soft and uncalloused the hands are.  Castiel meets Dean’s bewildered eyes.  At least that’s a feature he recognizes.  Flecks of gold in brilliant green and for a lone millisecond, all is right in the world.  

But then Dean keeps talking and the spell is broken.  

“Are you stoned?”

He shoulders away from Dean and rubs his forehead where it’s gone almost numb.  “Unfortunately not.”

“Dude, what _happened_ to you?”

“Life?”  He goes back to the cabinets and keeps poking around.  “Not this one, maybe.”

Dean stands there, completely flustered, before he steps forward and puts himself physically between Cas and his kitchen.  “Care to be less vague or at least tell me what you’re looking for?”

“What am I looking for?  Long fucking list.  Let’s start with not seeing the ghost of my dead lover in front of me.  That’d be nice, you got any of that in your cupboards?”

“Okay.”  Dean drags a hand over his face and then with forced calm puts a hand on Cas’ bicep.  “I think maybe you had some bad weed or something—.”

“Oh fuck you.”  He jerks out of the man’s grasp, trying not to think about how warm and nice the touch felt.  “I’m not going to stand here and let some fucking… _hallucination_ tell me I’m crazy.”  And with that, he turns on his heel and storms out the apartment, slamming the door behind him.  

He has no idea what he planned to do other than storm off, but the idea of turning back and dealing with some _guy_ masquerading as Dean is too much, too cruel after everything that’s just happened.  He’s barely had time to process (and if he can help it, he’ll be able to find some drugs to bury himself in so that he doesn’t have to for a long, long time).  After looking down the hallway, he spots the elevator and hightails it out of there.

When he exits the building, the bustling activity startles him.  Since waking up, he’s only seen Dean and didn’t pay much attention out the window because frankly he didn’t give a shit.  Why enjoy the view of a world you don’t even think’s real, you know?  Now, as he’s confronted with a bustling downtown metropolis, his angry retreat stutters to a stop.

It’s not as though Castiel needed further confirmation that this world is not his own, but this is… _overwhelming_ .  It’s been _years_ since he’s seen so many people.  Actual honest to god people and not infected Croats or even survivors turned militants.  

The scene before him takes his breath away.  Parents leading their children by the hand to cross the street.  Fuck, he hasn’t even _seen_ a child in so long he’d almost forgotten about them.  Yet there one is, fiddling with a bow in her hair.  Businessmen rushing along while drinking coffee and yelling into their phones.  A horn blares as a green sedan honks at a white van that hasn’t noticed the green light.  A bus stops not twenty feet away and there’s a bustle of activity as people get on or off.

His attention is snagged by every new stimulus, gaping at how _alive_ this world is in comparison to the one he’s been torn from.  

Alive.  Terrible choice of words.  Because now his mind conjures forth the image of Dean dead in his arms—.

“No,” he growls.  Castiel bites the inside of his cheek and uses the pain to ground himself.  He coaches himself not to think about… about _him_ and to focus instead on something more neutral.  A problem he can actually _solve_.

Like where in the name of fuck is he.

As he walks down the street, he takes in everything.  He assumed he’d died (or maybe that was just wishful thinking), but now he’s not so sure.  This place doesn’t quite seem like any version of Hell he’s ever experienced.  It’s too calm and too open.  He has the feeling that if he were to pick a direction at random and keep walking, he’d be allowed to.  Even Heaven is usually more restrictive, having definite boundaries that it tries to mask.  

This place, though…  This place just feels real.  So as torturous as it is to be here with not-Dean, it’s not a torture he’s bound to.  So not Heaven, not Hell, and certainly not a drug trip. Something else.

Ugh, but _what_?

He wanders around the city for a few hours, trying to get a better fix on where the fuck this place is.  He catches a glimpse of a newspaper and his heart skips a beat when he notices the date reads 2009.  Hope springs up inside him.  Did he somehow timetravel?  Is there a chance he can stop—.

“Idiot,” he reprimands himself.  “Dean Smith.   _Smith_.  Not Winchester.  Not your world, past, present, or future.”  

Yes, this is clearly a pre-apocalyptic earth, but it’s not one he’s ever been to.  A parallel world, then.  Some alternate timeline that he’s somehow found himself trapped in.  

There’s a nagging sense, too, that there’s something vaguely familiar about it.  Something more than the generic urban America feel of the city— Columbus, as he eventually finds out.  There’s some quality that he can’t quite pin down, something intrinsic about the place he feels he should recognize.  Like he _should_ know what this realm is.  It’s the weirdest fucking deja vu he’s ever experienced.

And if he can figure that out, maybe he can get the fuck out of here.

He’s not even sure why the hell he _cares_.  Get out of here and what?  Go back to his own world where Dean’s dead and any chance at stopping Lucifer died with him?  He didn’t mind being a crusader for good—never has—but much of that was following Dean’s lead.  He sure as shit doesn’t want to do it alone.

 _Dean would want you to_ , a relic of his old angelic self whispers.

 _Dean would’ve wanted a lot of things,_ he snaps back.   _Doesn’t mean he got them._

“Well, enough of this depressing bullshit.  Time to do something productive like find some narcotics.”  The sound of his voice startles a woman walking nearby and he flashes her a reassuring smile.  If anything, it makes her more ill at ease so he lets his features fall back into a glare.  The woman cringes a bit and she scurries off, keeping an eye on him until she rounds a corner.  

“Judgemental shrew.”  

Castiel keeps going until he realizes that he’s not in a dystopian future and he can’t just go scavenging for drugs and hoping to get lucky.  Never in his life has he had to _purchase_ them, he’s always happened upon them.  The idea of finding someone who sells drugs and then somehow paying for them is actually kind of offensive to him.  

He’s not quite sure what the rules in this place are, but generally speaking, breaking into people’s homes and raiding their medicine cabinets or stealing from a pharmacy is frowned upon.  He doesn’t want to be arrested.  As weird and awful as things are right now, going to jail would certainly make things worse.

( _Mmm you’re too pretty to go to jail,_ a voice that sounds suspiciously like Dean says.  The Dean only he saw, the one when they were alone and tangled up together in bed.  Not the front he put on for everyone else’s benefit.)

Forcefully he pushes aside the voice and all the thoughts attached to it.  He doesn’t have time to wallow right now.  

So if he can’t search for drugs and he has no money to _buy_ them, what the hell is he going to do?

He combs his memory for pre-apocalyptic scenarios that might be relevant.  Unfortunately few are.  As an angel he had no interest in them and the Winchesters themselves used medication for more practical applications like being able to sleep through pain.  Arguably, he’s currently looking for the same thing, but he’s not interested in arguing semantics.  

There was this one conversation with Sam years and years ago.  When Sam was tipsy and Dean had disappeared to the bathroom, he’d leaned over the table and giggled a bit.  Then he confessed in a conspiratorial tone that he’d smoked a bit of pot in college.  He’d looked longingly at a group of young men in the back of the bar.  “I bet they’re lighting up right now.  I can totally smell it.”  But of course he hadn’t gone over, and he begged him not to tell Dean because his brother would flip out.  Castiel had nodded along solemnly, already knowing about the younger Winchester’s college day proclivities.  He was Lucifer’s true vessel.  All of Heaven knew.

Ah, those were simpler times.

As usual when his mind happens to fall to Sam, he allows himself a moment filled with sadness and longing.  He misses the young man, all his kindness and propensity towards goodness even when burdened with the knowledge of his destiny.  There’s nothing he regrets more than seeing Sam fall prey to Lucifer.

Well, perhaps he selfishly regrets what happened to Dean a tad more.  But if he had the chance, he would change both.

He hates how nostalgic this place is making him.  What the fuck is wrong with him, craving a fallen world that’d gutted him?  Burned out his grace and broken his wings and left him a mess with no hope of redemption.  Fuck that world and everything it did to him.

Fuck is he craving something to take the edge off.

The point is, a college campus sounds like a promising place to start his search.

After awkwardly accosting a few people on the streets, he manages to get himself pointed in the direction of Ohio State’s campus.  Surely someone there has some weed they can spare.

Meandering about the campus proves fruitless.  He’s about to reconsider his stance on breaking and entering when he catches sight of a young man not so smoothly handing off a paper bag to another young man.  He watches as they shake hands, no doubt slipping a roll of cash between them, before parting ways.  Well then.

Belatedly he realizes that just because he’s found someone with a supply of drugs doesn’t mean he’ll have access to said drugs.  This is the type of thing that requires currency, and even on a barter system he’s well aware that his particular skill set would be unappealing to a young man such as this.  Oh well, he’ll simply have to improvise.  He’s good at that.

Castiel follows the man along neatly paved walkways through brick buildings.  It’s painfully apparent how little he blends in with the crowd.  With the exception of a small handful, he’s a good decade older than anyone else.  His clothes are beyond dirty and in total disrepair.  He’s had to mend holes in them himself for months, and washing them was a luxury he normally didn’t bother with.  There’d always been so little soap to go around at the camp that he let others make use of it.  No doubt he smells off too.  Beyond the gunpowder and the sweat and blood, there’s something completely unclean about him that has the students instinctually giving him a wide berth.

Part of him wonders what Dean would make of all this.  He hopes he’d laugh at his predicament, an addict terrorizing co-eds looking for a fix.  But that was old Dean.  His Dean would probably roll his eyes and bark at him to fucking deal.

 _Your own damn fault for letting yourself get hooked in the first place_.

Apologies would come later of course.  Pressed into his skin by busted lips and calloused fingers—.

“Please!” a girl hisses at the young man Cas has been tailing.  It’s too late for him to stop walking without it being awkward, so he keeps going and listens intently.  “I don’t have that much—.”

“Then I don’t know why you called me.  You know my prices.”

“You know I’m good for it, Scott.  C’mon.”

Castiel catches him considering it before he walks past.  He strains to hear the rest of the exchange while he looks for a place to double back.  “I’m sure we could work something out.  Let’s go inside.”

The sound of doors opening and closing make him stop in his tracks and turn around.  There’s only one building they could’ve gone in, so he steps inside and follows the sound of footsteps leading down a hallway.  He barely catches sight of them ducking into a room.

“A men’s bathroom,” he grumbles to himself when he catches up.  “How classy.”

Stepping inside, he hears the man—Scott, apparently—encouraging the young woman to get on her knees.

“I really don’t—.   _Please_ , I’ll have the money next week… I don’t want—.”

“Shhh, don’t worry about it.  This’ll make it easier for both of us.  Don’t tell me a pretty girl like you doesn’t know how to give decent head.”

Castiel rounds the corner that opens up to the rest of the bathroom and immediately grabs the young man by the shoulder.  “Thanks for making this easy for me, by the way.”

“What—?”

He first gives him a kidney shot before spinning him around and working his gut with a few quick blows.  The girl yelps and cowers beneath the sinks, curling up in a ball but watching with rapt attention as Castiel continues to beat the man into submission.  It doesn’t take much.  The first few punches were probably enough, but there’s something cathartic about the whole thing.  Cas lets his hands fly a few more times as he chases that feeling.

When he’s done, the kid’s face is a bloody mess.  For sure a broken nose and his eye is swelling shut.  There’ll of course be bruises hidden by his clothes, though Castiel thinks he controlled himself enough that there’s no permanent damage.

“Wh—why?”  The kid spits blood onto the floor as he falls to his hands and knees.  He grimaces in pain before doubling over to cradle his gut.  “I don’t deserve this!”

“Don’t deal drugs then, asshole.  Or rape people.  Honestly, I don’t know what you were expecting.”  He picks up the man’s backpack and starts rummaging through it.  The anticipation’s already making him feel twitchy.  “What you got, by the way?”

“Weed.”  He coughs.  More blood pools underneath him.

“Okay.  Anything stronger?”

“Uh… oxycontin?”

He finds a rather large plastic bag at the bottom, filled with several smaller bags.  Inside he sees pill bottles and joints and loose weed.  Nice.  Very nice.  “Hmm, not a bad stash.  I appreciate your donation to my not-so-recreational substance abuse.”

“You can’t take it all—. Ow!”  The young man breaks off into whimpers after Castiel lands a kick square to his ribs.

“Clearly I can.  Just think of it as asshole tax.”

He’s about to walk out when the girl calls after him.  “Hey!  Thank you.”

Something old and almost forgotten shifts inside of him.  

_Saving people._

_Hunting things._

_The family business._

He has to physically shake his head to dispel the thought.   _They were never_ **_your_ ** _family to begin with,_ he reminds himself.

( _Yes they were_ , something whispers back.)

“Don’t worry about it,” he grits out and makes to flee.

“Wait!”  The girl’s voice freezes him in his tracks and he turns to look back at her one last time.  “You can’t just walk around with a bag of drugs and blood on your knuckles and expect to not get caught.”

Oh.  Good point.  In the flood of adrenaline rushing his system, he’d completely forgotten where he is.  And while beating up a drug dealer to prevent him from coercing sexual favors might be deemed commendable, stealing from him would not.  

He doubles back to the sinks and, side-stepping the now-crying Scott, he washes his hands clean.  Then he kneels down to take a better look through the discarded backpack.  He dumps the contents on the ground, picking through to see if there’s anything good (there isn’t).  But old habits die hard.  He stuffs the novels back in as well as a notebook and pencil case.  Reading and writing material have been so hard to come by, and he can’t quite imagine discarding them on a wet bathroom floor.  

There’s also some gum and a swiss army knife.  The rest he leaves behind (though he _is_ tempted to grab the batteries out of the calculator, but his dedication to his former life has its limits).  Then he shoves the plastic bag back in, covering it with the other pilfered items worth saving. As he squats on the ground getting everything together, he happens to look up at the girl.

She’s no longer curled in on herself, but watching him with a curiosity that seems unwarranted.  Sighing, he digs through to pull out a single bag of weed.  He tosses it at the girl’s feet before popping some pills into his mouth and dry swallowing.  “Thanks.  For the advice.”

“No problem.”  Her fingers inch forward to grab the bag, never breaking eye contact.  “See you around?”

He can’t help but snort as he springs to his feet.  “Unlikely, but I appreciate the sentiment.”  And with that he disappears.

It must be a busy hour or off time of day.  Within maybe ten minutes of snooping around, Castiel  finds a deserted corner of campus and parks himself on a bench.  The pills haven't kicked in yet so he pulls out a joint.  Thank god there's a lighter mixed in with all the other junk in the front pocket.  He certainly doesn't have the patience to abandon his spot to find one.  He lights it up and already feels years younger and infinitely less stressed.

He stretches out on his bench, tucking the ugly red backpack under his head and looking up at the sky.  As he breathes in the smoke, he feels it purifying him of pain and confusion.  As he breathes it out, he watches it chase away the bad thoughts and memories trying to creep in on him.  Repeating the cycle: in, hold, out, repeat.  

It’s surprisingly good shit, actually.  Not cut or made from someone’s backyard stash grown rampant from neglect.  Someone actually tried to grow it, paid attention to it and carefully measured its potency.  One of the perks of living in civilization, he supposes.

While he continues to enjoy the joint, imagining it mingle with the pills slowly leaking into his bloodstream, he stares up at the clouds and lets his mind wander.  He focuses on the blurred edges and shapeless forms.  Because as long as he’s thinking about how that cloud might mean rain and that one’s slowly dissolving, he can’t think about _other_ things.  

Slowly, though, he starts to pick out images in the endless grey spotted blue above him.  Over there, that cloud could be a shotgun.  That one next to it is certainly Dean’s amulet, the one he buried with Bobby years ago.  If he lets his eyes unfocus, the large dark grey one over there is the Impala before she stopped running and became a relic of a forgotten time.  And there, at the edge of his vision, is quite clearly a pair of wings.

Sigh.

The images of wings—broken, mangled, a shadow of their former self—makes him hum quietly under his breath in consideration.  Angels sing, and even if his memories of their songs have faded, he’s pretty sure this tune was his favorite.  Or he’s a junkie humming gibberish, but who’s there to judge?

An idea trickles in through the haze.  It’s been years since he gave his brothers and sisters more than a cursory thought.  And usually it was to curse them and their uselessness, their idiotic adherence to a plan that was fundamentally against what their Father had taught them, their—

“Breaker breaker, Castiel to home base, do you copy?”  He directs his prayer to Heaven, to the brothers and sisters he thinks most likely to look kindly upon him.  Gabriel or Hannah or Samandriel.  Perhaps Anna is still around in this world.  Hell, maybe this world has its very own Castiel up there.  “Fallen angel requesting back up, over.”

The minutes tick away with no response.  He mumbles the lyrics to _Space Oddity_ three times before he gives up (okay, so maybe he belts out the chorus and scares a nearby pigeon, but that’s between him and the birds).  It was too much to hope for, he supposes, that his siblings would start being useful.  Why ruin a perfect track record.

Then half-remembered words filter back to him.  

 _Castiel Novak?  We went to high school together_.

Oh.  Right.  

So this was a world without angels then.  Or at least, if there are any, they’re all regular schmos.  Huh. How freaky would it be to look himself up, meet his truly human self.  

It would actually probably be no more traumatic than waking up to meet Dean Smith.  A relief, even, compared to the trauma of the last twenty four hours.  He toys with the idea some more, but decides it’s too much effort for too little payoff.  If it were his younger, angelic self, that might be worth the shenanigans.  But messing with some random guy who sorta looks like him just for kicks?  He’ll pass.

So that of course leaves him with the obvious question of _what next_?  

Now he’s high enough to actually handle his predicament, perhaps it’s time to reconsider the whole Dean thing.

His heart aches and longs for Dean.  Now that there’s a thin layer of calm wedged between thoughts of Dean and the endless pain they bring, he can be (almost) objective about the whole thing.  If he’s not careful, Dean’s death will kill him.  Whether it be through overdose or neglect or his own hand, there’s no grounding presence in his life to keep him on track.

Does he care?

If he ceased to be, would that be so terrible?

Accepting your mortality is one thing.  Willfully bringing about its end is another, and Castiel’s not ready to take that step.  Not yet.

Truth be told, the only thing keeping him from seeking oblivion is this strange new Dean.  He’s different in so many small ways and there are no doubt much _bigger_ ways that they’re different as well.  And maybe, selfishly, he wants to find out what those differences are.  Curiosity and all that.

Which he supposes gets to the crux of the matter.  With his shield against the world back in place, he’s willing to admit that no matter how painful it might be later, he’ll take any extra time with Dean he can get.

Any Dean is better than no Dean.


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

He believes normal human etiquette should have him embarrassed by his earlier behavior.  And his behavior now, come to think of it.  Storming out after a one night stand (even if no sex was involved, that’s how Dean Smith construed the situation) and coming back hours later cloaked in drugs, isn’t great behavior.  

Cas doesn’t really care.

It takes him an hour to find his way back, knocking on five apartment doors before an elderly woman is kind enough to tell him he not only has the wrong apartment, but the wrong floor.  He thanks her and the next thing he knows, he’s outside a completely bland looking grey door.

Dean opens it after a solid minute of banging, looking so exasperated.  And sweaty.  Why is he sweaty?  It collects at his brow and trickles down his neck.  Castiel just wants to lean forward and lick it—.

A hand waves in front of him.  “Earth to Castiel, you there?”

Belatedly, he realizes Dean’s been talking.  “What?”

“Ugh, you’re still high.”

“No.  I mean, yes I’m high, but I’m not _still_ high.  I was sober this morning.  Can I come in?”

Dean considers him for a long moment.  He eyes the backpack suspiciously but doesn’t comment.  Eventually he turns around and walks back inside.  Cas wants to tell the burst of happiness he feels in his chest to either go back where it came from or die.  

He appreciates the view of Dean walking away from him, but frowns when he notices Dean get on a strange looking piece of exercise equipment and fiddle with his earbuds.  His Dean was always very firmly anti-exercise (and anti-earbud for that matter), yet this Dean clearly isn’t.  He starts… walking… or running… what the hell _is_ this thing, anyway?

It’s so distracting that he’s still standing in the entryway when Dean barks out, “C’mon, man, close the door!”

Briefly he’s back in their camp, hearing his Dean tease him about his damn hippie beads and forgetting how to function when he’s in a place with actual doors like a civilized person.

Perhaps he slams it shut a little too hard in an effort to rid himself of the memory.  He very much wants to keep his Deans separate.  The idea that this one could somehow pollute the memories of the one he got to hold and love and fight alongside of stings almost as badly as his death does.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea—.

“You done talking about me being dead and a ghost or something?  Cuz that was kinda freaking me out.”

That voice lures him and he succumbs to its siren call.  He takes a few steps into the living room, unsure if he should make himself comfortable or not.  He opts for running his hand along the edge of the sofa to play with the blanket thrown over it.  

“Yes, I think so.”  

“Good.”  Dean reaches for a sleek looking grey water bottle and squirts some in his mouth.  Castiel’s fascinated by his Adam’s apple working.  “You wanna take a seat, your fidgeting’s making me nervous.”

Castiel obediently sits on the arm of the couch.  Dean huffs like he wants to object, but he doesn’t.  All he does is press some buttons on the console in front of him and start going faster.  It’s hypnotic.

“Have fun on your little excursion—?”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel interrupts while pointing at the machine.  “But what the hell is that thing and why are you on it?”

He expects there to be a flush and an embarrassed huffing before some posturing about whatever excuse Dean normally uses when he engages in this activity.  Instead he’s given a look like _he’s_ the ridiculous one.

“It’s an elliptical.  I normally go to the gym to work out, but it’s Sunday so I figured I’d treat myself to staying in.”  He shrugs, which looks bizarre as he continues his sort of running.  “Gotta burn off all the beers I had yesterday.”

Completely floored by the information and unable to process any of those words coming out of Dean’s mouth, Castiel ignores them.  “You got any food?”

“You didn’t eat while you were out?”  

“No?”

“It’s been like five hours.”

“I take it that’s a long time.”  He’s gone far longer, obviously.  Days sometimes if they’re stuck too deep in Croat territory and can’t find anything.  He genuinely hadn’t even noticed, only brought it up as something to do.  

Dean’s expression is unreadable—maybe because it’s actually unreadable, and maybe because Cas is starting to realize he simply doesn’t _understand_ this Dean well enough to read him—as he points to the kitchen.  “Help yourself, man.  Shouldn’t skip meals like that, it’s not good for you.”

So Castiel resumes his earlier search and continues to find very little that actually resembles food.  It’s rather annoying that he’s survived in a post-apocalyptic hellscape and he’s eaten better shit than this lately.

“What the fuck _is_ this stuff?” he asks as he holds up containers.  “What the hell is quinoa and why are you eating so much of it?  Where’s all the sugary, over-processed stuff?  The _meat_?”

If anything, Dean seems amused by his complaints.  “There’s chicken breast in the fridge.”

“Ugh!”  He throws the quote unquote _food_ back into the pantry and raises his arms in disbelief.  “That’s like, the _worst_ part of the chicken.”  Maybe he should reconsider whether or not he’s in Hell after all.

“Maybe, but it’s the healthiest part.  Gimme another ten minutes I’ll make you something.”

That’s enough to shut him up.  He pours himself a glass of mineral water (baffled at the very idea of Dean drinking this when he has yet to spot any alcohol) and putters around the kitchen until the elliptical turns off.  Then he’s joined by miles of sweat-soaked clothes and heady musk and surely an uncomfortable boner if he weren’t baked out of his goddamn mind already.  

Luckily enough his stomach’s running the show.  

“You got any allergies I should know about?”

He wants to make a crack about how unhygienic it is to cook after working out, but his mouth and brain don’t seem to be connected anymore.  Probably for the best.  He merely shakes his head and backs far enough away that there’s ample room between them.  

“So I’m going to do some rosemary chicken with lemon and thyme.  I think I still have some veggies in the fridge too.  If not, I can make some rice.  Sound good?”

No.

“Yes.”

While Dean cooks, Castiel does his best not to hover.  The end result is him standing a constant five feet away while leaning over at precarious angles to get a better view.  His focus isn’t on the food preparation itself, but on the way Dean’s hands move as he cuts and stirs and mixes.  Occasionally he’ll drift off a bit and his mind will paint him a picture of Dean Winchester, leader of the last surviving human camp in all of Missouri, being this nauseatingly domestic.  

And then in a flash the image is gone, replaced with the stern look and determined words of a man about to send his friends to die.  A man about to die himself.

He’d like to say he isn’t moping, but by the time the chicken’s done and the rice is bubbling he is most definitely in a sour mood.  He wants to immerse himself in this world, this blessedly normal and safe place where Dean has a happy, ordinary life.  That’s all he’s ever wanted for Dean, and now in some sick twist of fate he gets it.  

Not at all like he wanted it, but maybe he should’ve read the fine print.  

“Lemme freshen up a bit and we can eat, okay?”  Dean disappears down the hallway without waiting for an answer.

Yes, good.  Replace the trails of sweat with trails of fresh water.  That’ll certainly be better.  

But at least the brief privacy afforded to him by Dean’s shower lets him dip into the bag and grab some more pills.  He doesn’t even look at what they are, grabbing the first container he gets his hands on and pouring a generous helping into his palm.  Vaguely he wonders if thin tendrils of grace remain buried somewhere, always allowing him to get high but never OD.  

Then he brutally quashes that thought because thoughts like that are why he self medicates in the first place.

Either Dean showers remarkably quickly, or Castiel loses some time for a bit.  Because one moment he’s contemplating his own mortality (and the mortality of those he’s already lost— _is_ Dean truly dead if other versions of him will continue to exist in the multiverse?  Does that make his Dean less important, in the grand scheme of things?  Does i—oh, _stop_!) and the next he’s seated at the table with Dean staring at him expectantly.

“What?”

“How is it?”

To his chagrin, there is actually a forkful of food in his hand that’s stopped halfway to his mouth.  He quickly takes a bite and tries to savor the flavors.  There certainly _are_ flavors.  More than he’s used to, or at least more artfully strung together.  But no matter how fancy it is, it still tastes like a dry piece of chicken.  At least when his Dean fed him, he had the decency to give him the dark meat.

“Mmmm,” he mumbles noncommittally.  

Dean beams at him.  “Not bad for ‘the worst part of the chicken’, right?”

They eat in silence for a bit.  Despite what his admittedly unrefined palette says, Castiel’s stomach much appreciates the meal.  He goes back for seconds and loads his rice with butter, salt, and pepper, then goes so far as to pour some of the chicken sauce over it.  Dean watches and hopefully doesn’t judge him too harshly as he wolfs down his meal.

“So what happened to you after high school?”

Castiel freezes.  Everything he knows about Castiel Novak, Dean himself has told him.  He suspects this would be an easy way to be exposed for the fraud he now feels like.  Now that he’s decided to stay with this Dean, to selfishly drink in every minute he can with him in lieu of his own, he’s not ready to be kicked out over the technicality that he isn’t who Dean thinks he is.

“I’d much rather hear about you,” he hedges.  

Dean moves the food around in his mouth while he considers that.  Instead of pushing, he says, “Okay.  Went to college, got a job at Sandover right after graduation.  I’ve been working at their main branch downtown for a good… eight years?  I think?  Finally became director of sales and marketing a couple years ago.”

Most of that is complete nonsense to Castiel, so he pulls at the only thread he can.  “Sandover?  Why does that sound familiar?”

“Uh, probably because we’re like the biggest company in the Midwest?”

“No that’s not it.”

Narrowed eyes are pointed at him.  “Uh, yeah it probably is.”

Given that he has no idea why it _does_ sound familiar, he shrugs and concedes the point.  They continue talking about Dean’s job for a bit.  Castiel has to feign interest in most of it.  While he’s glad to see Dean enjoys his work, it’s by no means a captivating topic.  But merely getting to _hear_ Dean’s voice, get lost in the cadence of it, is soothing to his soul.

“Why are you doing this?”

“What?  The merger with—?”

“No, _this_!  All of it!”  He motions to the table, now littered with empty plates and low fat frozen ice that tastes vaguely like kiwi.  “The food, letting me back in, talking to me like I'm not some smelly crazy person.  Why?  You have a crush on me or something?”

After a full ten seconds of silence, Dean barks out a laugh.

“Thank you for that blow to my ego, by the way.”

“Sorry, it's just… you're Castiel friggin Novak.  Like, the whole school had a crush on you.”

“That… doesn't sound like me.”  Unless this Cas never had a stick up his ass and jumped right to the whole drug orgy phase, but even then he's more of an acquired taste.  

“False modesty doesn't suit you, man.”  He finally seems to register Castiel’s shock.  “Seriously?  Like, the whole student body was in love with you, man.  You were all smart and nice but kind of mysterious.  And then you joined the Peace Corps and _whooo_ people just kinda lost their shit over that.”  

Not so subtly, he gives Cas a once over.  “So basically, after we lost touch you went off the deep end.”  Dean shrugs and quietly adds, “Why are the pretty ones always crazy?”

“I’m not crazy.”  Then, after a moment’s thought, he adds, “I am kinda pretty though, aren’t I?”

“Well I sure as hell didn’t bring you home with me for your amazing conversation skills.  Guessin’ the Peace Corps didn’t work out so well for ya?”

He barely knows anything about them, but he suspects Dean wouldn’t either.  May as well go with it.  “It was life-changing.  Helping others is extremely fulfilling, but I’ve seen things and sometimes been… unable to help the people who needed it most.  There’s nothing like feeling useless as people around you are dying in part because of decisions you, or people like you, have made.”  Generic but probably applicable and certainly true.

“Shit man…”  Dean flounders for a second, looking so adorably guilty for having brought it up.  “You uh… You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”  Thinking about his past is bad enough, but verbalizing the wretchedness for others to inspect and take apart and judge… No thank you.

“Okay well, if you ever change your mind—.”

“Yes, yes.  Your offer stands.  But are you going to answer my question?”  Dean stares at him blankly.  “ _Why_ are you being so nice to me?  Do you feel guilty because you think we had intercourse last night?  Or is it that you feel responsible?”

Dean chokes on his mineral water and coughs ‘til he’s red in the face.  Castiel reaches over to pat him on the back.  The contact is too warm, too pleasant, too _much_.  As soon as Dean’s even marginally recovered, he yanks his hand away as if burned, when the truth is quite the opposite.  

“Shit, you tryin’ to kill me?”

His wording is like a knife to the heart.  Through his pain, he grits out, “Just answer it.”

“I guess...  I dunno, I feel bad?  Like, you were such a nice and put together guy back when we were kids and now…  I mean, I’m ninety percent sure you’re high right now or something, you look like you haven’t seen a shower in a solid week at least, your clothes are torn, patched up, and torn again…  You’ve been through hell, and I feel like if I don’t help you out I’m just sending you right back into it, when instead I should be trying to pull you out.”

The irony of Dean wanting to pull Castiel out of Hell is not lost on him, but he suppresses a chuckle.

“And I’m thinking,” Dean continues on obliviously, “maybe someone just needs to give you a chance and help you get back on your feet.”

“And that someone just so happens to be you?”

“I mean, I’m offering.”

Dean always was a sucker for a sob story, even if he denied it.  

“I suppose,” he starts, carefully measuring his words.  “I would very much like to stay here, if you are in fact offering that.  I don’t see what’s in it for you though, having me here.”

“Consider this my good deed for the year.”  Castiel’s touched for a moment, appreciating the significance of this man taking in what he thinks is a down-on-his-luck former acquaintance with a drug problem.  “But—”  And now Cas is bracing for something truly terrible, something more in keeping with how strangers are supposed to behave towards one another—  “You’re gonna have to pull your weight, man.”

“So not _that_ good of a deed.”

“Shut up.”  Dean playfully pushes his shoulder, then uneasily pulls his hand back as if he’s crossed some sort of line.  He hasn’t, but Cas isn’t sure how to reassure him of that.  “So I get that you’re not working right now, but maybe you could clean or something.”

Castiel looks around at the spotless apartment.  Sure, he always knew Dean was a neat freak but this is just excessive.  He has no clue how to even _approach_ cleaning something that’s already immaculate.  “I can cook,” he offers.

“Dude, you were baffled by absolutely everything in here, _including_ the coffee grinder.  Forgive me if I’m a little skeptical of your cooking skills.”

“Okay, well, I can cook _actual_ food, not this…”  He searches and finds old Dean feeding him a line.  “This _rabbit food_.  You’ll have to leave me some cash so I can get ingredients.  I can’t do anything with the shit you have.  Mostly because I’ve never heard of half of it, and partially because I’m not convinced the other half is even food.”

Dean looks wary.  “Write a list of ingredients and I’ll get them on the way back from work.”

He knows mistrust when he sees it.  He’s also not polite enough to ignore it.  “You think I’m going to buy drugs with your money.”

“Are you implying that _isn’t_ a possibility?” Dean counters.

“Well I mean… I might _consider_ it but I wouldn’t—.”

“Hey,” he interrupts with a raised hand. “If it helps, I wouldn’t trust _any_ random guy with any amount of cash so don’t take it personally.  Gimme a list and I’ll get whatever you want, okay?”

Whether or not it’s a lie, Castiel’s willing to accept the placating gesture.  “Okay.”  They eat in silence for a moment before he adds, “Does that offer include clothing?  Because I’m a bit light—.”

“You’re starting to be more trouble than you’re worth.”

“Only because you haven’t tried my tuna casserole yet.”  

“Well I guess we’ll find out.”  He offers his hand to Castiel, and they shake on their newfound cohabitation.

What could possibly go wrong?


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

The leather's sticking to his back where his shirt's rucked up.  The Impala’s A/C has never been great, but it's been acting up more than usual lately and Dean just can't find the parts for her.  Sooner or later he'll have to give up on her completely.  Right now though, she still runs.

And Castiel can think of no place more fitting for their first time.

Dean's on top of him, panting right in his ear as he grinds down into him.  If Cas had known their stake out would turn into a frenzied make out session, he would've been sure to bring lube.  Oh well.  He's not sure he'd be able to last long enough to make it worthwhile and it doesn't sound like Dean's any better off.

“You gonna come for me, angel?”

Cas shudders—whether from the nickname or because Dean's just taken them both in hand, he couldn't say.  Not that it matters.

“Yes please yes yes Dean—.”

“Shhh,” Dean hushes him with a kiss.  “I’ve got you.”

He did.  Cas remembers this.  Sweat and come and breathy laughs and whispered promises doomed to be broken.

He holds onto the memory as long as he can, because deep down he recognizes this for what it is.  So he wraps his arms tightly around Dean and doesn't complain about the suffocating weight on him.  

“Don't leave me.”

“I won't.”

“You did.”

“Sorry.  But I came back.”

“ _He_ doesn't count,” Cas growls and squeezes a little harder.

“If you say so.  If it were me getting you back, I'd count my lucky stars.”

“Well I'm not you,” he snaps.  He buries his face in Dean's hair and breathes it in.  His brain tells him he's smelling familiar smells, but he can't actually feel a thing.  “Let's not argue right now.”

The silence stretches out and Cas’ mind drifts.  When the world takes shape again, his heart threatens to beat out of his chest.  He knows this building, knows what's through those doors, and he desperately tries to will the scene to change.  

It doesn't.

If anything, the colors become brighter and the shapes more solid as his feet carry him forward against his will.  He wants to turn and run, to scream or just have the world cease to be because he can't do this.  Not again.

The doors open and he's surprised by what he sees.

Not Dean lifeless in the ground.  He's alive and defiant as he brandishes the Colt at Lucifer.

“Here to ask me to get out of your brother?” the devil drawls, looking bored.

“No.  Just here to finish things.”

Lucifer stares down the barrel of the Colt and sighs.  “Dean, I'm disappointed in you.  Sam held you in such high esteem, I would've expected more from you than _this_.”

Dean shoots and Lucifer doesn't so much as flinch.  He empties the chamber into him and nothing.  Then Lucifer's on him, laughing at Dean's futile attempts to fight him off.  Castiel watches helplessly as his big brother easily overpowers the Righteous Man.  Forces him to the ground and snaps his neck under his foot.

A shriek of anger and grief fills the air and went stop until Castiel is choking on bile.  Lucifer looks up and deep in his soul, Cas knows he _sees_ him and suddenly it doesn’t feel like a dream anymore.  The monster wearing his friend’s face takes a step towards him, and he screams.

\- - - -

He's woken up by shouting.  It takes him a moment to realize it's his own, and then it cuts off abruptly.  He's twisted in his blanket, half off the couch and the coffee table’s been kicked over.  A warm, steadying hand is on his shoulder.  Familiar and calming to the point that he almost forgets his dream.

Almost.

He looks into a pair of worried eyes and tries to anchor himself to them.  It's too dark to make out the golden flecks or even really the green of them, but knowing it's there tricks his mind into seeing the colors anyway.  

Shrugging off Dean's hand, he forces himself to look away.  Only then his eyes dart down to stare at his lips, beautifully pursed in concern, and that's not any better, so he lets them wander back up.  “Sorry, I…  Nightmare.”

“Yeah I figured.”  His voice is sleep rough.  Makes him sound more like his Dean.  But he's giving Cas a funny look that in his experience has never meant anything good.

“What?” he asks warily.  

“You uh… You shouted my name.  During your nightmare and I just—”

“Oh,” Castiel interrupts.  “Sorry.”  Because letting Dean talk means letting him ask questions Cas can't answer without sounding as crazy as Dean already no doubt suspects he is.

Maybe he _is_.  Who knows?

Dean mercifully looks away.  “Don’t uh… don’t worry about it.  I was gonna get up soon for work anyway, you want some coffee?”

“No thanks.”  Caffeine never was his drug of choice, and he doesn't intend to change that now.  He takes a moment to collect himself.  He buries his face in trembling hands and takes a few deep breaths through his nose.

It doesn't work.

Images play behind his eyes that he can't chase away.  Even when he opens them, Dean's ghost haunts him.  

“You sure you're alright?” Dean asks over the brim of his mug.

“Nothing a little…”  He grabs his backpack from under the couch and digs through it for the first pill bottle.  “Ambien can't solve.”

“Whoa whoa!”  Dean nearly spills his coffee as he rushes over and snatches the bottle right out of his hands.  Castiel had already popped the top off, and the jostling knocks most of the pills onto the couch and floor.

“Fuck,” Cas hisses as he scrambles to pick them up.  Dean ditches his mug on the coffee table and wrestles Cas until his hands are pinned to his sides.  “What the hell—?”

“I'm really gonna have to insist you not do that.”  His voice is steady but there’s the slightest hint of a tremor there.  Like if Castiel were to push, the whole façade would crumble.  And he has no idea what’s lurking underneath the false calm.  

He wiggles a bit, mostly to test how strong Dean’s hold is.  The answer is _very_.  “What, drugs make you uncomfortable?”

“When it comes to random dudes staying at my place, yeah, a little.”

Cas fights a bit more, but there's very little he could do to free himself without hurting himself or Dean.  When he stops struggling, Dean waits a moment then lets go.  He wants to argue but sees the futility of it.  So instead he settles for pouting while Dean cleans up the mess and then dumps it all in the trash while Cas looks on forlornly.  There's more where that came from, but he can't help but mourn the loss.  It just feels so wasteful.

“So maybe we should lay some ground rules.”

“Ugh you're such a… such a kill joy.”

_(Haha get it?  Because he was killed and all your joy died.  Hilarious.  Almost as hilarious as a fallen angel who thinks be has a chance at happiness.)_

“Uh huh.  I'm so sorry to rain on your parade, but this is gonna have to be a drug free zone while you're here.”

“Meaning it's not a drug free zone when I'm not here…?”

Dean glowers at him with arms crossed, clearly unamused.  

 _His_ Dean long ago gave up moderating his drug habit.  After some half-hearted attempts to get Cas to clean himself up, he'd instead bitten out a gruff, “Don't let it affect your work,” and never brought it up again.  Sure, there were the occasional dirty looks, but overall he let it go.

This Dean seems more insistent.  He's drawing a firm line in the sand and will not take kindly to it being crossed.  Which simply means Castiel will have to be careful.

“ _Fine_ ,” he spits out.  “Anything else, Mr. Party Pooper?”

After a moment of consideration, Dean seems to deflate a little.  “Nah not really.  We'll keep a running list though, just in case anything else comes up.”

“Great, I can't wait.”

Instead of bickering with him, he turns to the kitchen and calls over his shoulder, “You hungry?”

Is he?  He could probably stand to eat, but his body honestly isn't used to having food so readily available.  Given how much he had for dinner, he won't be looking to eat for at least another few hours.

“I'll pass.”  Dean gives him a hard look.  Fuck does he hate being babied.  He hated it when he first Fell and needed to start doing human things like eating and sleeping, and he doesn't appreciate it now.  Especially not with the vaguely patronizing look accompanying it.  It makes him feel small in ways that he doesn't want to examine too closely.

Well, at least if nothing else, Dean taught him how to lie.

“I'm not feeling hungry after…”  He waves to his abandoned bed on the couch as he trails off, brow furrowed in a way but that makes him look self-conscious rather than annoyed.

Dean seems to understand and doesn't push the matter.  “Suit yourself.”  He then proceeds to pull all manner of fruits from the fridge.  Strange, exotic ones Castiel had ignored the previous night because he had no clue how to eat them.  Dean has no trouble cutting them open and tossing them into a strange looking blender.  He pours in some milk and protein powder, then blends it into a puree that's an unappealing pinkish purple.

Is it terrible that Cas is starting to miss the shitty food Chuck made?  He'd rather eat mystery meat sloppy joes than whatever the hell concoction that is, yet Dean happily chugs it all in one go.  

About the time Cas stares transfixed at the movement of his Adam's apple, he finally registers how little Dean's wearing.  He's in a threadbare t-shirt and boxers, and Cas scrambles to find something to say only to distract himself from the fact he can see Dean's nipples are hard and in the right light his boxers are see through.

“Do you by any chance own an Impala?” he blurts out.  

“The _animal_ ?”  Dean seems completely baffled as he rinses out his glass and the blender.  “Dude, I don't know if you've looked around, but I couldn't own a _cat_ in this place without a bunch of paperwork and a committee hearing.”

“Aren't you allergic to cats?”

“Yeah, well, even so.”  He wrinkles his nose at that but continues on.  “Why you asking about deer, anyway?”

“Never mind.”  It'd been too much to hope for, he supposes.  Though it’s probably for the best.  He wouldn’t want the lines between this world and his own to blur too much.  As far as he knows, he’s the only one left who even remembers Dean Winchester.  It’s up to him to preserve the memory.  Keeping his Dean separate from Dean Smith is crucial to that goal.  

“Oookay, weirdo.”  He finishes washing up and turns to Cas.  “Feel free to eat whatever I've got lying around.  I'll leave my number and you can text me whether ingredients you want me to pick up and why are you giving me a funny look? Do you not have a cell phone or something?”

“Funny you should mention it—”

“Of _course_ you don't have a cell phone.”  Dean runs a hand through his hair as he thinks.  “I'm gonna get ready for work, you _write_ your list and give it to me before I go, okay?”  Dean grabs a pad of paper from the fridge and a miniature pen and tosses them at Cas.  “Just try to keep it low carb and high protein, okay?”

He’s not sure he knows what that means, and quite frankly he’s pretty sure he doesn’t care.  He lists a bunch of ingredients, all of his favorite things that he hasn’t necessarily gotten to enjoy the past few years.  Fish and beef and things as simple as apples and orange juice.  Cheese.  Actual honest to god _cheese_ would be divine.  There’s no real plan on what he’s going to make for dinner, but he figures if he’s good at improvising with shit like canned dog food and wild onions, he can make a legit dinner with this stuff.

When Dean re-emerges from his room, Cas feels like he’s been hit in the gut.

Dean’s a handsome man.  Always has been.  But Castiel’s used to see him in faded henleys and torn jeans and layers upon layers.  (And naked.  He’s gotten to see him naked a fair number of times too.)  This is honestly not fair.

A perfectly tailored striped button down shirt accented by a red tie expertly knotted.  His slacks are pressed and damn if the matching suspenders don't pull the whole look together.  And his shoes are actually shined for fuck’s sake.  

Cas shifts uncomfortably in his seat and tries to ignore the blood starting to flow south.  Because he is _not_ turned on by this Dean.  He _isn't_.

(Though his boner is putting up a very convincing argument to the contrary.)

“Hey I'm running a bit late, I'll see you ‘round six?” If Dean notices anything off, he ignores it.  Without another word, he grabs an apple from the fridge and stuffs it in his mouth.  He pulls on his suit jacket and snatches Cas’ list from his hands.  

At the door he picks up a briefcase, then pulls out the apple after taking a huge chunk out of it.  “Stay out of trouble,” he says with a wink.  “And maybe take a shower.  The laundry machine’s behind the door next to the bathroom, but you can use some of my clothes for now if you want.”

“Uh huh.” Considering his brain stopped functioning around ‘perfectly tailored shirt’ so he's happy to get that much out.

Dean shoves the apple back in so he can open the door.  “See ya.” But with his mouth full, it's barely more than a mess of garbled sounds.

As soon as he's alone, Cas dives for the backpack.

Promise or not, he needs something to kill his arousal and maybe destroy all the brain cells that are still operating.  Which makes the weed useless, since all that ever does is make him hungry and horny.  Cas puts together a cocktail of random pills from labeled and unlabeled containers and swallows them before he can think better of it.

He spends the day barely coherent.

There’s the shower, which is unsettling enough because there are far more products in there than one man could possibly need.  He sticks to a bar of a soap and one that _appears_ to be shampoo.  The cold water and drugs working their way into his bloodstream do wonders to cool his libido.  Enough that by the end he's no longer even tempted to jerk off.

The entirety of his time washing clothes has been spent bent over a stream or barrel, so the idea of working an actual machine designed for the sole purpose of laundering clothes is more intimidating than it should be.  But what’s the point of showering if he’s going to put the same dirty clothes back on?

He basically puts on the first clothes he can find.  It's not like he's picky and he doesn't want to risk poking around and finding Dean's porn stash (or worse yet, his dildo).

After that, he kinda just lies on the couch and tries not to think about anything.  It's mostly successful, but that's the whole point of getting high.  

Somehow he remains coherent enough to cut himself off a few hours before Dean's due back.  He feels the effects slowly dissolving and the weight of impending sobriety leaves him exhausted.  

Cas doesn't realize he's fallen asleep until he's jolted awake by the door closing.  His head hurts and he feels more tired than before his nap, but his sleep was mercifully dreamless so he'll call it a win.

“Little help?”

Together they unpack the groceries.  Dean must pick up on Cas’ disgruntled mood and keeps quiet other than occasionally directing him where to put things.  But when he finds some boxes of frozen dinners, Cas can't help hold them up and glare.

“What?” Dean laughs as he takes them and puts them in the freezer.  “I'm not doubting your culinary expertise, but it never hurts to have a backup plan.”

“That sounds exactly like doubting it,” he grumbles.  It's not like he even has a plan for dinner, but it irks him nonetheless.  

“Consider it a challenge then.” He puts away the last of it.  “I got you some clothes.  Some really generic sweats and tees, but they'll do for now.  I'm gonna go change while you cook, ‘kay?” And then he's gone and Cas can breathe again.

Dean disappears for an hour or so.  Whether he's of relaxing after work or giving Cas space to cook, he's unsure.  He tries not to overanalyze it.  

 _You don't_ **_want_ ** _his attention,_ he reminds himself.  

_Yeah.  Keep telling yourself that._

_Ugh fuck off… me._

Cooking is a welcome distraction.  He really is a decent cook, but he’s never had this many ingredients to work with.  His minimalist approach doesn’t go with the fifty spices in Dean’s spice cabinet (and the fact that he even _has_ a spice cabinet is mind boggling), but he puts together what he hopes are decent burgers.  

Dean's timing is perfect—as soon as the burner turns off, he appears in the kitchen sniffing and poking around the plated dishes.  “If this is half as good as it looks, consider my coming back for seconds an apology for ever doubting you.”

He's still feeling grumpy but can't quite suppress a smile.  So sue him, he's got a soft spot for taking care of Dean.  And the other man actually _acknowledging_ it and _appreciating_ it?  It's nice.

Dean may have been content to let Cas’ surly silence slide earlier, but that doesn't last once they're seated at the dinner table.  No sooner had Cas taken his first bite than the interrogation starts.

“How was your day?  Keep yourself busy?”

“Oh man this is good.  Where'd you learn to cook like this?”

“So what’s the Peace Corps like?”

Well shit.

In vague terms, Cas tells Dean about his life.  The shitty circumstances, the going hungry and relying on drugs as a coping mechanism for when shit got even worse.  He stays away from names and places, but he has plenty of stories about running for his life and getting hurt so bad he's out of commision for months on end.  About friends gained and lost and maybe actually being selfishly relieved now that it’s over.  

Even _telling_ someone else any of this is cathartic beyond what he would’ve imagined.

“Man, that’s some intense shit,” Dean says after Castiel runs out of things to say.  Cas looks to the man sitting across from him, a thoughtful look in his green eyes.  “The Peace Corps sounds way more intense than I would’ve thought.  Actually sounds more like you were in the army or something.”

Castiel shrugs and stares at his empty plate.  

“What made you decide to quit?”

He flinches.  Dull, unseeing eyes in a lifeless body.  A world devoid of color and a falling sky.  

“Didn’t have a choice.”  There’s a certain finality to it that Dean doesn’t question.  

Instead he quietly gets up and clears off the table.  They do the dishes together, though Dean keeps snatching things out of his hands and putting them in the dishwasher instead of letting him handwash them.  

“Wanna watch TV?”

Talking has drained him of words so he grunts and meanders over to the couch.  He plops down and lets Dean pick a channel.  Some sitcom, nothing even remotely familiar but mind numbingly dull enough that it hypnotizes him within minutes.  And the rhythmic turning of the elliptical as Dean ‘works off a fatty dinner’ helps keep him from _thinking_.  

It’s all he could ever want.

The sitcom ends and drifts seamlessly into the local news.  There’s something about a drug dealer, found beaten and bloody in a campus bathroom (Dean’s stride falters slightly but evens out after a few cycles), then it goes into some human interest stories.  A hockey team visits sick children in a hospital.  A little girl is determined to save the world with her backyard sustainable farming efforts.  A deaf rescue dog was adopted by a little boy after the shelter made a music video promoting some of their older animals.  A man goes crazy and murders his family for no discernible reason, but manages to avoid police capture.  A charity—

Wait what was that last one?

He’d been so caught up in how overall _good_ this world is, he almost didn’t catch it.  Castiel reviews what he can remember hearing in his head, but it’s so muddled.  If only he’d been paying more attention, he’d have more than just the tail end of the report to go on.  He knows what it _sounds_ like.  But that would be impossible and terrible and something he’s more than willing to pretend isn’t true.

Because how the fuck would Croats have ended up here?


	5. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

Whether Dean Smith or Winchester, he’s pretty sure either would be able to pick up on his anxiety within seconds, so Castiel deliberately avoids even _considering_ the possibility of a Croatoan outbreak here.  Homicides happen everywhere all the time.  Murders and humanity have been a package deal since Cain and Abel.  He’s just feeling jittery.  It’s to be expected when you’re supplanted from a post-apocalyptic wasteland into a functioning modern society again.  

After he’s left alone in the living room, curled up on the couch, he looks out at the Columbus nightlife.  As he falls into troubled dreams, he finds himself missing clear skies that allowed the stars to shine bright.

The images never quite take shape, but he has the distinct feeling of flying.  Incorporeal, he bounces from place to place without settling.  It makes him dizzy enough that he violently pushes away from that dream, instead falling head first into memories of running and shooting, shouting and worrying that at any moment the men and women with you might turn—

Cas wakes with a jolt and falls back on the couch in relief.  Thankfully it was just a vivid (if not disturbing) dream.

For better or worse, that life is behind him.  

Or so he tells himself over and over until he falls back to sleep.  At least his dreams—if he has any—are less troubled after that.  

\- - - -

“Hey man, you sleep better last… night…” Dean trails off as he comes into the living room, already dressed and ready for work.  He takes in Cas’ haggard appearance and makes a face.  “Well, at least no screaming,” he mutters under his breath as he smiles apologetically and continues into the kitchen.

Cas lets himself get an eyeful of Dean once more impeccably dressed (this time with a polka dot shirt and yellow tie, and another pair of suspenders) before turning away and refusing to look.  He’s far too tired and far too sober to deal with any unwanted desires seeing the other man might stir.  

While Dean makes another one of his questionable smoothies, Cas disappears into the bathroom.  He turns on the water and brushes his teeth with the unopened toothbrush Dean’s left out for him.  Doing such a menial task is somewhat grounding, but not nearly long enough.  He turns on the shower but doesn’t step in, just to keep up the pretense.  There’s a thin layer of sweat and grime that’s built up in the last twenty four hours, but not nearly enough to tempt him into the warm water.  

Instead he sits on the toilet and listens to the water fall.  He counts out the minutes in his head, uses his pulse to keep time until it’s been long enough that Dean must have certainly left.  Only then does he turn it off and hazard a peek outside.  

An empty apartment greets him, and a bag of weed beckons him.

“Why do you even stay here if you're just going to avoid him?” he asks himself between puffs.  He'd ducked out onto the balcony to smoke, careful to close the door so none of the smoke could blow inside and give him away.

“Good question.  Good good question.” His back is to the glass doors and he faces the Columbus skyline.  He breathes in a long drag and holds it in for two or three counts.  Lets it out slowly and watches the smoke dissipate completely before he answers.

“It probably has something to do with the fact that I've been in love with his doppelganger for years now, and the idea of walking away from even a facsimile of that man is unbearable.”

He finishes the last of the joint and flicks it over the edge.  It spirals end over end until it disappears out of sight.  

“Good answer.”

Cas immediately strips and dumps his clothes in the wash.  Dean showed him how to work the damn machine the previous night when he'd done a load of new clothes for Cas.  Admittedly, being well fed and wearing clean clothes that almost kind of fit is new, but he's got a feeling it'll grow on him.

There's not much to do after that.  He tries the TV (it's either that or the elliptical, and he's _not_ getting on that thing), but after a few seconds on any particular channel and he finds himself disinterested in the program.  The one exception is the news, but he's terrified of what that might show him.  Can't it be someone else's turn to try and save the world?  It's not like Castiel was particularly good at it in the first place.

But when he does dare himself to linger long enough to catch a story or two, there's nothing overtly _wrong_ about what he sees.

God willing, last night was simply a fluke.  Him reading too much into something that was vaguely reminiscent of the shit hole he came from.

But when had God _ever_ been willing to cut him some slack?

Abandoning the TV, he ends up going through Dean's stuff.  That sounds terrible, but it starts innocently enough.  There are pictures on the bookshelf and a photo album tucked amongst the novels there.  Granted his social skills are suited to a very different crowd than Directors of Sales and Marketing, but he's pretty sure their placement makes them free for guests to peruse.  

So he does.

The books and board games and movies on display are themselves very telling.  This is a well read man who enjoys not only the classics of film and literature, but the cult classics too.  He's pretty sure his Dean would approve of Vonnegut sitting comfortably next to Neil Gaimon.  Though maybe not so much Citizen Kane mixed in with Indiana Jones.  Dean never was a fan of black and white.

Family photos and childhood pictures.  And perhaps it should be strange to see Bobby in John Winchester's place, but it isn't.  Cas never knew the man, but he knew enough to dislike the legacy he left behind and the burden he'd put on Sam and Dean's shoulders. Beyond that, he knew Bobby.  He was a good man, one who'd done right by Dean for as long as he could.  The father Dean both needed and deserved, it was only right that he fill that role here.

What throws him is seeing Jo Harvelle in Sam's place.  The Winchester brothers had fates so intertwined, the idea of them _not_ being brothers never occurred to him.  Strange.  But also very freeing, if the results around him hint at anything.

Dean as part of an elementary school play.  In a middle school band concert playing the trumpet.  On a high school lacrosse team.  Dean in graduation robes not once or twice but three times.  Pictures of travels from all over the US, and he's pretty sure Europe and Australia make it in there, too.  All the highlights of this man's life, neatly collected between two spines.  

Once he's inspected each page, committed every smile to memory, maybe he gets a little greedy.  Because when it's just pictures, it's easy to pretend this was _his_ Dean's life.  And maybe it should kill him that Dean never got to live this life even for a moment, it's so _so_ damn good to know that _some_ Dean did.  

Does.  

Whatever.

So with that in mind, he slips into Dean's room and looks around.  There are more pictures, his college diplomas, and other mementos from a happy life.  Things that make his heart ache to see.  The whole experience is bittersweet.  

Going through Dean's room is decidedly creepy.  He's promised himself he won't snoop beyond what’s in plain sight.  But there's not actually that much in here.  It takes very little for his willpower to crack when he sits on the bed and his eyes fall on the nightstand drawer.  

“Don’t do it,” he warns himself as his hands creep closer.  “You should stop doing this,” he adds when he pulls the draw open.  “This is definitely invasion of privacy right here.”  There are a couple books with glossy covers inside, and he sets them around him on the bed.  None of them appear to be diaries or anything like that, so he breathes a sigh of relief that his self-control won’t be tempted to cross some lines he _definitely_ shouldn’t.  

They’re high school and middle school yearbooks.  Castiel smirks as he lines them up in order, going to the newest first and working his way backwards in time.  The first time he looks for Dean, though, he makes the mistake of looking amongst the W’s and it hurts more than he wants to admit when he doesn’t find him there.  

He drinks in the sight of a young Dean Smith.  At this age, it’s harder to tell the difference between the two Deans, and he likes that.  There are likely other pictures of Dean throughout the pages, but he doesn’t have the patience to comb through and look.  Castiel’s about to set aside the book in favor of the next one when he notices a page dog eared.  Curiosity piqued, he turns to see what Dean found interesting enough to ruin the crisp edges of his yearbook for.

There are more rows of students, but none look familiar.  It takes almost two complete circuits of the pictures before one pops out of him, and then he truly feels out of place.

_CASTIEL J. NOVAK_

The boy in the picture stares back at him.  It’s unmistakingly _him_ .  Not a young Jimmy, but a young _Castiel_ .  Even in a small photograph, there’s something innately _him_ that shines through and…  It’s weird.  Very very weird, but for the life of him he can’t look away.  Untold minutes pass until two ideas occur to him.

First he looks at the dog ear, playing with the flap to see how responsive it is.  The corner tries to bounce back up every time and the fold hasn’t quite taken hold.  New then.  Dean’s been looking at these recently.

Second he casts the book aside to greedily get his hands on the next one, then the next and the next.  All of them are dog eared, some more than others, but each page reveals a picture of Castiel.  Younger and younger he gets, but still, there he is.  

His hands tremble where they grip the pages.  He really needs a drink or a hit or _something_ because he’s not capable of handling this type of existential crisis with a clear head.  

Unfortunately for him, any hopes of digging through his drug supply die when he hears someone fiddling with the front door.  He yelps and quickly grabs all the yearbooks, shoving them back in the drawer and slamming it shut.  Careful not to make too much noise, he sprints to the bathroom and ducks inside.  Once he’s no longer winded, he makes his way back to the common area.

“How was work?”

Dean startles a bit but recovers with a smile as he sets down his briefcase.  “Good.  Lots of boring number stuff happened that I can tell you about if you need a bedtime story.”  And fuck him because then he _winks_ at Castiel.  As if Cas is in any shape to be able to handle _that_ right now.

“Got any beer?” he grits out abruptly, clenching his fists to hide the slight tremor in them.

“No?”  

“Liquor?  Wine?  Rubbing alcohol?”

“I’m going to assume that last one was a joke.”  He glares sternly at Cas before actually answering.  “I don’t think so.  I don’t really drink much.  Too many empty calories, y’know?”  

Castiel in fact does not know, but he nods along anyway.  “I’ll just… get started on dinner then.”

He feels Dean eyeing him suspiciously, but given that there’s apparently no alcohol for him to find, Cas ignores him.  All this forced sobriety is getting to him.

The meal’s half-cooked before he even realizes what he’s making.  The yearbooks and the Croatoan scare and the very idea of Dean Smith having a happy and healthy life all occupy his mind, warring for attention and distracting him to no end.  When he focuses on the “famous” tuna casserole he’d promised Dean a few days ago, it clears up some headspace.  

Dean carries most of the conversation while they eat.  All Cas catches is that the food “ain’t half bad” and something about all the work he’s had to do over the last few months because his boss just up and left them.  They settle in for another night of sitcoms playing over the steady sound of the elliptical _whooshing_ back and forth.  

When the end credits of one show segue into the nightly news, there’s once again nothing remotely Croatoan.  One less thing to worry about, and tension eases out of Castiel in waves once he decides that this place—whatever it is—is safe.  Honestly, he’ll take his imagining things over even the remote possibility that he was right any day.  Because it’s a hell of a lot less scary than the prospect of having _another_ world go to shit around him and losing _another_ Dean.

He reflexively turns to look at Dean, powering away through his evening workout.  Admittedly, this Dean’s starting to grow on him and he’s not quite willing to lose him just yet.

\- - - -

The third day of their cohabitation experiment does not go well.  

Bad dreams plague Castiel all night.  He sees through the eyes of some vessel-less angel, darting around and chasing a young Dean Smith and Castiel Novak, looking as they did in their middle school pictures.  The boys run hand in hand, terrified in the presence of an angel they shouldn’t be able to even sense let alone see.  

_I see you there, Castiel._

_Take me to the Winchester boys.  I know you’re hiding them from me, you petulant little—_

It’s still dark when he wakes up.  The first rays of light are starting to make themselves known at the edges of the horizon, but it’s the dull glow of electronics that lights the room.  

That’s one thing he misses about his own world.  At least when he couldn’t sleep, there was a warm body there to distract him.  Now there’s just a lumpy pillow and the promise of a lonely day.  

Waiting for Dean to leave is a struggle.  He yearns for the other man’s company because false Dean or not, it’s comforting to have him nearby.  But he also yearns for the sweet embrace of a drug fueled high, and that’s not going to happen with Dean hovering over him.  As soon as the door clicks shut, Castiel’s dumping the contents of the backpack out on the coffee table and trying to figure out how best to ration out his day.

Given the circumstances, it was inevitable that he’d overdo it.  Temptation and bad thoughts make him take too much too fast, barely letting the first round of pills settle in before he’s washing it down with a second and a third.  He’s well aware of his body’s limitations and normally respects those limits.  Today he simply can’t be bothered.

He’s riding his high past the point of coherency and doesn’t much care.  There’s nothing but goodness and nothingness here.  

_“Cas!”_

Why would he ever want to go back?  

_“Don’t do this to me, man!”_

Maybe he should keep going, find out how far this path goes—

“Wake!  UP!”

His eyes focus and there’s the very worried face of Dean Smith far too close to him.  Personal space, come on Dean.  

“Oh thank _god_!”

Cas weakly tries to push him away, but the movement only serves to upset the contents of his stomach.  His limbs find the strength to forcefully throw Dean off him, but only so he has enough room to turn and vomit all over the floor.

Even as Dean wordlessly helps him onto the couch and out of his dirty shirt, as he cleans up the mess and gets Cas some water, hovers over him until he drinks it all, Cas can hear everything Dean wants to say.

_Such a fucking disappointment.  You’re a waste of space.  Can’t believe I thought you were better than this.  Always pulling this shit, making me think I can trust you and then proving exactly why I shouldn’t.  Dumb fucking angel pretending at being human_.

Okay, so admittedly it’s based off of some choice words from when his own Dean had found him in similar states.  

When Dean’s gotten everything more or less straightened out, he throws a shirt at Cas and waits for him to put it on.  It takes a lot of effort, far more than it should, but Dean doesn’t offer to help.  He paces back and forth in front of Cas, the sleeves of his work shirt rolled up and the tie thrown over his shoulder.  As soon as the hem of the shirt falls in place, he rounds on Cas.

“I’m pissed.”  His tone is even and it unsettles Castiel.  His Dean was never able to maintain a façade of calm when he was this angry.  He’d much prefer yelling.  “Scratch that, I’m fucking livid right now.  I said no drugs, you said okay.  I come home and you’re passed out in the middle of my fucking apartment.  I’d thought you’d fucking OD’d, for fuck’s sake!”

Even at the end, his voice barely rises.  It’s like they’re regular people discussing the weather, not the very real possibility that Cas almost died.

“I’m sorry?” he tries.  This is a conversation he’s used to navigating with a very different man.  He’s not sure how to approach it with this one.

“Oh, you’re fucking sorry?”

Apparently not like that.

“You damn well better be fucking so—”  Dean breaks off and stops his pacing.  He buries his face in his hands and takes a few deep breaths.  “I’m guessing you’ve gotten stoned or high or whatever every fucking day,” he mutters into his palms before letting them fall.  “Okay, here it is.  Since apparently I didn’t make this clear enough on day one.  It’s me or the drugs.  You flush them right here and now in front of me and you can stay.  Otherwise, you take them and get out and don’t ever come back.”

Castiel blinks up at him in wonder.  Later on after he’s actually gotten rid of his drugs, he'll wonder how this Dean succeeded where the other failed.  Probably because this one actually made an ultimatum, while his was content to let him finish his Fall so long as he fought the good fight.  

God his Dean could be a real self-serving asshole sometimes.

“Well?” Dean prompts.  “What’s it going to be?”

Since that one life-altering moment in Hell, Castiel has never once chosen anything over Dean.  He’s not about to break that streak now.  

Even if it is the wrong Dean.

“Okay.”

Dean blinks at him in surprise a few times before letting a small smile pull at the corners of his mouth.  “Let’s do this then.”  He then meticulously grabs every pill and bag of weed from the contents scattered on and around the coffee table.  Even the backpack gets combed through for leftovers.  

They walk down the hallway to the bathroom together.  Castiel stares forlornly down at the toilet.  With a sigh, he accepts each item Dean hands him and lets it fall.  The first few splashes make him wince, but it gets easier after that.

Once everything’s in there, his hand hovers on the handle.  “You know this is terrible for the water supply right?”

“Maybe, but it’s good for you.  I’m willing to take the loss.  Flush it.”

Cas watches wistfully as it all spirals down the drain.  

“Hey, I’m proud of you man.”  Dean claps a hand on his shoulder and squeezes gently.  “That couldn’t have been easy.”

He brushes it off because the truth is harder to own up to.  The simple truth that once Dean asked, it was the easiest thing in the world.


	6. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: this chapter contains mentions of eating disorders

**Chapter Five**

Dean leaves Cas alone for a bit to mourn the loss, which is really pathetic the more he thinks about it.  Having room left in him to mourn something like drugs when he should still be reeling from Dean's death.  He knows it's not quite that simple, but it is the kick in the pants he needs to stop staring down a friggin’ toilet and go face the rest of his life. 

His legs don't quite want to obey him.  Traitors.  He walks slowly back to the living room, hand dragging on the wall just to keep him steady.  By the time he rounds the corner, Dean’s sifting through a drawer in the kitchen and picking through various colorful, laminated sheets.

“Indian food’s probably too harsh for your stomach right now, right?  Maybe subs?  Or we could go with something more classic like pizza.”

“I can cook.”  He can barely walk or stand.  Standing next to the heat of the stove would probably make him pass out, and chopping vegetables seems like a terrible idea.  But no one ever said he wasn’t stubborn.  Hell, he’ll make PB&J if he has to, anything to prove he’s capable.

Dean gives him a once over, his expression making it clear that he does  _ not _ agree with that assessment.  “Well, consider it a night off then.”  He pulls out his phone and dials.  “Yes, I’d like to place an order for delivery…”

The last bits of the numbness he’d managed to cloak himself in earlier are starting to fade.  Soon he’ll feel the full weight of the bad shape he’s in.  And that’s not even counting the withdrawal symptoms he’ll be dealing with in a few days.  He knows from experience how shitty that is.  Once or twice before his stash has run dry before he could recoup his losses.  The shaking fits and the body aches had paralyzed him for days, and Dean had spat out that it “served him right” before he’d gone out of his way to get Cas more drugs just to alleviate the symptoms.  

There’s no point in even considering  _ that _ possibility now.  

Besides, he knows he has little right to complain.  Others in the camp had suffered from withdrawal as well, but they’d always had it much worse.  One of the perks of once being an angel, he supposes.  Never quite as sick, never quite as injured, never quite as hungry or tired.  He’d always liked that about himself.  It made him more useful to Dean and the cause, and got him no small amount of praise from Dean for it.  

Now as he slumps on the couch, very  _ aware _ of Dean pointedly ignoring him as he moves about the apartment, Cas can’t help but feel he deserves more than the watered down experience.  He’s failed two Deans within the span of a few days.  Maybe even three, but he’s pretty sure the 2009 Dean made it back to his home unscathed, or what else was the point of Zachariah sending him there in the first place.  At any rate, he’s earned whatever suffering is coming his way.  

By the time the food arrives, Dean at least seems to be in a better mood.  Some of the tension’s gone out of the air and he offers a shy smile to Cas when he sets the table.  Cas watches as he opens up a deep dish pizza for him and pulls out a salad for himself.  Although he has very little appetite, he politely picks at the food in front of him.

The heavy silence they’ve somehow fallen into reigns until Dean’s halfway done his salad.  Then he sighs and pushes it away, reaching for a slice of pizza and digging in.  “How’re you feeling?” he asks as tomato sauce drips from the corner of his mouth.

Cas pulls off a piece of crust and pops it in his mouth.  It’s actually pretty good, but he’s not sure his stomach is up to the task of eating it right now.  “Not as bad as I’m going to feel tomorrow.”

“Well that’s the spirit,” Dean mutters.  He drops his pizza back on his plate and wipes off his hands.  “We need to find you a more healthy coping mechanism, man.  I know you’ve been through some shit, but there’s gotta be something better than almost killing yourself to get through it.”

“Like what?” he asks through gritted teeth.  This whole conversation has already set him on edge.  And yes, he’s aware that Dean’s just trying to help, but there’s something insulting and condescending about the very  _ idea _ that this man knows anything about what he’s been through.  As if he knows better than Castiel how Castiel should deal with his own shit.

“I mean…  Most people would probably do therapy or something, but I’m pretty sure you’re not the therapist type.  You’d probably eat ‘em alive,” he jokes, then coughs awkwardly when Cas doesn’t seem amused.  “So maybe something like keeping a journal?  Write about the things that are bugging you?  Or other things.  That distract you.  Just to give you something to focus on other than craving drugs or feeling down.”

Castiel lowers his voice to its most deep, menacing register, and asks,  “And what the hell do  _ you _ know about coping mechanisms?  Mr. Perfect get a couple of B’s in college?  Not get the big Christmas bonus you were expecting last year?  Maybe you didn’t get a girl’s number one time at a bar and never quite recovered from that blow to your ego?  Don’t pretend your life is so hard or that you’ve suffered.”

That shuts Dean right up.  Cas leans back smugly in his chair, glad to knock him down a peg or two.  This Dean with his picture perfect life probably only knows the words ‘coping mechanisms’ from his Psych 101 classes or from the books and movies and countless TV shows he inundates himself with.  His understanding of it is at best second-hand, something he thinks he knows about from what he’s seen, but not what he’s felt or lived or—

“I uh…  I was depressed for a while,” Dean starts quietly.  His hands are folded on the table in front of him and his eyes are fixed on the pizza box.  Cas has to lean forward to hear the rest, but he’s surprised that Dean’s voice doesn’t waver as he finishes his confession.  “I was bulimic all through high school and a lot of college.  Still have some uh... Some body and self-confidence issues.”  He gestures vaguely to the elliptical and the abandoned salad.  “My therapist suggested a journal since I wasn't much into talking.  I don't do it anymore, but it… it helped.”

“Oh.”  Cas’ forehead scrunches in confusion.  “But why though?  You’re beautiful.  You must know that.”

Of all the things they’ve discussed,  _ that _ has Dean looking at him funny.  But he doesn’t blush or shy away from the compliment like Cas would’ve expected.  Just… accepts it.  Dean Winchester had to be force fed compliments like they were bad for him, never truly believing them even when he stopped fighting back.  This is… different.

“What?” Cas asks, more eager to hear Dean’s reaction than anything else.

“Dude, who goes around calling guys beautiful?”

“I do apparently.  Why, is that bad?”

“I mean, I guess not?  Kinda weird though.  I’ve been called handsome and cute and hot and even pretty once or twice.  Beautiful just seems so…”

“Old fashioned?” he supplies.

Dean laughs and shakes his head.  “Intimate is what I was going for, but yeah, that too.”

Somehow it's Cas’ cheeks heating up and isn't it a strange twist of fate that for once  _ he's _ the one rendered uncomfortable by the possibilities of their relationship.  

Very deliberately, he turns his attention to the rest of what Dean's said.  Bulimia is among the many things he's  _ heard _ of and has a basic understanding of, but no practical experience to speak of.

Admittedly, his Dean was always prone to a bit of chubbiness in his midsection.  At least until the apocalypse came and no one had any fat reserves left.  But this Dean is perfectly chiseled, surely with no excess body fat to speak of.  Castiel’s pretty sure there’s a six pack of abs hidden behind the loose cotton shirt he's changed into—

_ Stop.  Not your Dean.  Don’t touch. _

Again he's forced to change gears to safer territory.  Far away from words like  _ beautiful _ and  _ abs _ .  

“Okay.  I’ll give it a try.  The journal thing.”  What was the harm in trying? 

Dean beams at him.  One of those wonderful smiles that lit up his whole face and made his eyes shine.  That got rarer and rarer once Sam left and disappeared altogether after Detroit.

“Great.”  He reaches across the table to place a comforting hand over Castiel's.  The contact both burns and soothes.  The end result is that he doesn't pull away, but wonders if he should.  “Thanks for trying.  And listening.”

Such simple things.  He's never been thanked for such simple, menial things before.  Strange.  Nice, but strange. 

The rest of dinner is quiet.  Not nearly as uncomfortable as before, and Cas finds himself able to eat a little more now that his stomach is no longer tied in knots.  They've had their confrontation and started to move on. It wasn't nearly as violent or loud or disastrous as he expected, yet here they are on the other side of it. 

As Dean packs up the leftovers, Cas can't help but wonder if this is how normal humans are supposed to behave.  His crash course in humanity never involved “normal.”  But perhaps with Dean Smith as guide, he'll manage to navigate the pitfalls of this apple pie life he's somehow wandered into. 

\- - - -

As Cas cleans up his meagre possessions, dislodged as they were from the backpack, he stumbles upon the drug dealer’s notebook.  Only the first few pages have notes, so he tears those out and trashes them (“Whoa whoa— those go in the recycling!”).  The rest of the pages are a blank canvas, eagerly waiting for him to fill them with signs of his recovery.  

“What do I write?”

“Whatever you want.” Dean must pick up on Cas’ uncertainty, because he gently adds, “Stuff like…  Like what you did today. Or stuff from your past.  Interesting things you saw.  Lists of things.  You could draw.  Write story if that's easier.  Whatever, man.  The process is more important than the content, I promise.”

It's a mess at first.  Doodles and terrible poems that he’s pretty sure he’s half-remembering from actual poets.  Soon the familiar sound of the elliptical relaxes him and he starts talking about  _ it _ .  All of it.  Because once he starts, the necessity to chronicle the fall of his world overrides everything else.  Castiel's the only survivor, the only witness to a whole world.  It's imperative that he writes it all down, makes it all  _ real _ .

The whole venture is slightly selfish.  Although the sacrifices of his comrades surely warrant being remembering, perhaps part of Castiel is a little worried he imagined it all.  In the safety of Dean Smith’s apartment, with the carefree people going about their business on the streets below, it’s hard to believe there could be a parallel world so vastly different could exist.  It also seems terribly unfair that this world should flourish while one dimension over there’s another falling to ruin.  But if he writes it down, if  _ he _ remembers it, then it must have been real.  

Right?

It starts in enochian, but his brain’s not quite feeling it anymore, so he switches to English and maybe some other languages.  Who wants to be limited by the constructs of a single language, anyway?  Not that it matters.  It only needs to make sense to him.  Maybe not even him, since he doubts he'll ever reread it.  But just getting it all down is cathartic and freeing.

He scribbles furiously until his hand cramps, then he keeps going anyway.  At some point Dean pats him on the shoulder and whispers good night before leaving him alone with his words.  When he passes out near dawn, for the first time in a long time it feels like he's  _ accomplished _ something.

When he wakes up, the apartment is still and empty.  Castiel isn't hunched over the notebook like he expected, but tucked into the blankets piled around him.  The notebook is closed and waiting for him on the coffee table with his pen laid neatly across the cover.  His heart swells to think of Dean taking care of him.  Memories of his Dean pulling off his boots and getting him extra blankets in the winter lull him back to sleep. 

At least for now, dreams— good or bad— elude him. 

\- - - -

The tremors start around noon.  Then it's the aches and pains he remembers all too well.  Groaning the whole time, he practically crawls to the bathroom and vomits up his dinner before passing out.  He cradles the toilet, letting the hard porcelain cool his feverish skin.  

Dean finds him like that hours later.  He's so deep in his own head, he braces himself for Dean's belittling comments.  They never come.  Instead he's handed some foul, sugary smelling drink after being helped into a sitting position.  There are words, he's pretty sure, but he can't pick them out.  The tone is calm and soothing, so he lets it wash over him. 

A cold washcloth cleans sweat from his brow.  Cas leans into the touch and sighs.  Then it's dark.

\- - - -

Two days later, he awakens to find himself in a strange bed.  Panic rises until details resurface from his memory.  He's in Dean Smith's apartment (in his  _ bed _ ).  He's groggy and weak.  There's lingering pain in his joints and his head threatens to burst open whenever he moves, but overall he's in much better shape than he was last time he was lucid.  

And he's ravenous.  

When he emerges in the living room, Dean's eating an omelette and reading on his tablet.  

“Mornin’ sunshine.  Good to see you back on your feet.”

His throat is dry so Cas doesn't even bother trying to form a reply.  He waves at Dean while he stumbles into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water.  Then another.  Feeling less parched, he moves on to the fridge and digs out the leftover pizza.

“I could heat that up for you,” Dean teases.  Castiel just shakes his head and devours the remaining four slices before grabbing more water and joining Dean at the table. 

“Sorry about taking over your bed.”

“Don't worry about it.  You needed it more than I did.  And the couch ain't terrible.”

“I'm aware.  But—”

“Nope,” Dean cuts him off.  “No more apologies.  I'll wash the sheets and we'll trade back and no one will have anything left to feel guilty about, 'kay?”

What did he ever do to deserve this man's kindness?

Dean puts the dirty sheets in the laundry.  Cas expects him to spend his weekend on the elliptical or watching TV, but he wordlessly pulls a deck of cards from the bookshelf and teaches Cas a few games.  His hands fumble a little or he’ll be rendered useless by an agonizing throb along his temples, but the games offer a distraction and keep the conversation light but focused.  

(As he shuffles two decks of cards together, Dean points his chin at Cas.  “I got an extra razor if you wanna use it.”

“What?”  He drags a hand through the long, coarse hair.  Grooming isn’t a thing he worries much about, but he usually keeps it shorter than this.  This is an actual beard.  “Not a fan?”

Dean makes a face, something Cas can’t read, and starts dealing out the cards.  “Don’t get me wrong, I like some scruff.  But c’mon man, not a forest.”

He drags each card to the end of the table before picking it up and putting it in his hand.  “What does that even mean?”

Almost immediately, Dean bursts out laughing.  “I don’t even know man.”  He finishes dealing and puts the remaining cards on the side of the table.  “I was kinda going for a comment on how wild your beard is.  Maybe like a bear or something,” he says, lips still perked up at the corners as he sorts through his cards.  “But maybe I should take a lumberjack angle now.”

Cas hides behind his cards so the other man can’t see his fond smile.)

They pass the day slowly, enjoying meals and playing games until after dinner Cas wordlessly grabs his notebook and burrows into the freshly cleaned blankets Dean dropped off on the couch.  Dean doesn’t say anything, just allows him to start working again in his notebook, and grabs a book to read in the big armchair near the balcony.  

That becomes their routine.  Eating together when Dean was home, playing games until someone won (or, rarely, ended in a draw).  Then they'd share a companionable silence, Dean reading while Cas writes.  Or doodles.  Or goes to old sketches, retracing errant lines writing notes in the margins.  

He meticulously sketches out the layout of their camp, detailing all the additions made over the years.  Then one day he wakes up to Dean handing him orange juice and for a brief second, he genuinely can't see the differences between this Dean and his own.  The next five pages of his notebook are dedicated to trying to capture a dead man's likeness through words and drawings.

Only when he's able to easily tell the difference again does he allow himself to go back to other topics.  

Aside from the slow descent into chaos that was his life, Castiel can't help but slip some angel stuff in there too.  Things he experienced and witnessed throughout the eons of his existence.  It all seems like a joke now, but he suspects  _ he’s _ the butt end of it. 

At some point he tries drawing Sam.  As he was, of course, not what Lucifer made him. But it’s too painful and he gives up the attempt halfway through, blotching it out angrily.  It's the only instance where he feels he's wasted his time keeping this journal.

He admits to Dean one evening that he enjoys it.  The writing.  The distraction.  The way he's shifted his need for drugs to an almost obsessive need to document his former life.  Not necessarily an ideal solution, but he no longer craves a hit or daydreams about sneaking out to procure more weed.  

One day Dean declares he's doing great adjusting to civilian life.  “You could almost even pass for normal.” Whatever “normal” is.  

And just like that, their routine be shifts again.  

Little excursions out of the apartment become almost a daily occurrence.  It starts with Dean taking him shopping for more clothes (“You gotta be getting tired of wearing the same five shirts and two pairs of sweatpants.” “You're hardly an example to follow.  I've seen the rows of nearly identical shirts hanging in your closet.  You could literally wear a blue button down every day with a red tie without ever needing to repeat clothing.” “Don't pretend you're not jealous.”).  

Try as he might to refuse the generous offer, Dean doesn't budge on the issue.  He doesn't like the idea of Dean spending money on him, and he's not thrilled with the crowds.  In the back of his head, the idea that they're all Croats biding their time lurks.  But despite his worries, the smile on Dean's face when they're done makes it (almost) worthwhile. 

After that, they go on walks together.  During the week, Dean's too tired to do more than a few blocks through the bustling streets near his building, but on weekends they go to the park.  Cas finds an empty bench to sit on to write or sketch or sometimes just people watch.  Dean stays until he's settled, then goes for a run.  

Dean starts trusting him with cash, at first to order takeout for himself and later to go grocery shopping.  He still cooks dinner, but Cas takes special delight in choosing the ingredients himself and getting to surprise Dean with a mystery meal.  And secretly, deep down (so deep he won't even commit it to the pages of his journal), he relishes being able to take care of Dean.  Yes, this isn’t his Dean, blah blah blah, but a guy can pretend. 

Of course Dean complains that Castiel’s trying to fatten him up with the rich meals and excessive carbs.  But he eats it all the same.  Enthusiastically even.  And the one time Cas stretches his talents to bake an apple pie from scratch…  Well, he's never seen Dean Smith so happy.  He raves about that pie for days, even as he doubles the intensity of his workout regime to compensate.

It's nice and unlike any type of life he's gotten the chance to live.  It'd almost be perfect, a kind of retirement for an out of commission angel who lost everything. 

Or at least it would be, if it weren't for the nightmares.


	7. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

As well as his own recovery is going (and how well things are going with Dean, but he has mixed feelings on building that relationship, so he tends not to dwell on it), his nights are torturous.

The nightmares about his past are to be expected.  They drive what he writes about most of the time, reminding him of missions he might've otherwise forgotten.  In that way they're almost useful, reminding him in vivid detail that it really happened. 

The dreams of Dean are sweet torture.  Thankfully Dean's death isn't a recurring feature, just an occasional reminder that reopens the wounds of heartache before they ever have a chance to heal.  But the softer moments, the caresses and hands held under the table and the late nights…  Those hurt just as badly. Waking up, reaching for a warm body next to his that simply isn’t there—

All of that comes with survival.  The past may haunt him, but it can't hurt him.  It's the  _ other _ dreams that have him waking up in a cold sweat and dreading falling asleep each night. 

Eventually Dean's craving for his sitcoms works its way back into their evenings.  Which in and of itself is harmless.  Castiel ignores the predictable plotlines and mediocre acting, instead using the time to add to his journal.  It's the inevitable switch to the news that worries him. 

He knows it only has the power to upset him, but he can't help but watch with keen interest.  The notebook gets cast aside and he leans forward, transfixed.  Most of the time it's innocuous stories.  Even the floundering economy and volatile political climate bore him.  The smaller things tend to hold Castiel's attention and worry him well after Dean's gone to bed.

The strange homicides continue.  Scattered reports that become worryingly more frequent.  Maybe once a week becomes a common theme to every nightly broadcast.  Even the newscasters are baffled by it.  Not that it stops their fake smiles as they share all the grim details with their viewers.

That's just the start.  Cas awaits news of sabotaged water treatment plants.  Soon it'll be bizarre outbreaks of an unknown disease, necessitating a whole town to be quarantined.  Next will come the large scale earthquakes where they shouldn't be.  And Cas will know a new end has come when martial law gets implemented and tanks roll through the streets, enforcing a city wide curfew that does nothing to slow the spread of Croatoan.

As discreetly as possible, he makes a list on the back inside cover of his notebook.  He plots the increased homicides and waits for those other signs.  It haunts him how similar it already seems to the fall of his world, so meticulously outlined on the pages of this same journal.  The slow descent into anarchy, unnoticed by the masses until it's too late.  

And of course there's the harsh but bitter truth that there's nothing Castiel can do about it.

His dreams impose fresh images of death and chaos on him.  A second world crumbling around him while he's in even less of a position to stop it.  Not one Dean dead but two.  Glassy eyes void of life staring accusingly at him while he weeps and weeps.

Cas takes to sleeping on his stomach with his face buried in the pillow, hoping to muffle whatever cries or pathetic sounds might escape at night.  If he's lucky, he'll wake up paralyzed in terror.  It's awful, but at least then there's no worry he'll wake up Dean and alert him to his continued sleep troubles.  

After a particularly bad night, he grabs the notebook and the set of colored pencils Dean gifted him and starts drawing.  Losing himself in the pull of pencils across paper, the last tendrils of his most recent nightmare disappear, replaced by shades of green. The eyes, he always pays special attention to the eyes.  Windows to the soul and all that.  

He starts with the eyes and then adds the rest—the hard lines brought on by worry and the weight of the world on his shoulders, the sturdy but torn garments, the gun holstered to his leg, the heavy boots caked with mud—

“You drawing me?”

The shock forces his hand to draw an errant line.  He frowns and focuses on trying to fix it rather than actually acknowledging the other man.  Dean must give up because he disappears into the kitchen, not returning until he has two steaming mugs with him.  He knows Cas hates the coffee, but they’ve both discovered he has a soft spot for tea.  Without a word, he places the mug in front of Cas and sits in his armchair to start reading the news on his phone.

The silence drags on and Cas feels he needs to clarify.  “It’s not you.”

“Huh?”

“Who I’m drawing.  It’s not you.”

Dean raises an eyebrow at him skeptically.  “Dude looks an awful lot like me.”

Perhaps he’s too stubborn for his own good, because he petulantly counters, “There might be a… a _ superficial _ resemblance, but I assure you, it isn’t you.”  

_ Believe me.  I’m faced with the differences every moment I’m with you.   _

“Okay,” Dean says slowly as he places his mug down and leans forward, giving Cas his full attention. “Who is it then?”

That— That’s a question Cas isn’t prepared to answer, innocent though it may be.  Because Dean was so  _ so _ much to him.  He was everything.  Or at least, he should’ve been.  Dean’s gone now, and he’s  _ still here _ .  How can he still be here if his everything is gone?  

He shakes his head to dispel the melancholy thoughts.  With no idea how to sum up his relationship with Dean Winchester, he settles for, “It’s an old friend.”  

“May I?”  Dean’s hand reaches out for the journal.  

Castiel hesitates.  There’s something fiercely protective in him that wants to guard his Dean— even when he’s nothing but a memory and a poorly drawn figure— and his fingers tighten subconsciously around the edges.  But just as Dean’s about to give up and pull away, Cas hands him the notebook.

And there they are.  Dean Winchester and Dean Smith.  Face to face for the first time.  He can’t help but hold his breath as Dean scrutinizes his work.  What does Dean see when he looks at the crude sketch?  

“This is really good,” Dean says, tracing over a couple of lines and then wiping his fingers together to dispel the chalky feeling the colored pencil leaves on his skin.  “You study art or something?”

“What?  No.”  He blushes at the praise in spite of himself.  

“Well, maybe you should.”  

The idea of  _ him _ , former angel of the Lord, at some college or community center taking art classes like some common human.  Sitting in the back row and trying not to correct some art history professor on their banal assumptions about artists Castiel actually met and time periods he lived through.  It’s absurd, is what it is.

“It ain’t a joke man.”  But Dean’s smiling.  “But yeah, you’re right, definitely not me.”  He slides the notebook back across the table and goes back to reading on his phone.

Cas stares at his sketch, then up to Dean.  The two men are virtually identical.  Certainly enough that this drawing could in no way give to the differences between the two men.  But it feels like a trap to comment on it.

Fuck.

“What made you change your mind?”  

Dean looks up from his reading.  “Huh?”

_ Jesus fucking Christ, stop.  Do not open your mouth.  Take the out and don’t— _

“You seemed so sure it was you before.  What made you change your mind?”

“Oh.”  Dean waves dismissively and goes back to reading.  “I mean, pretty similar but like… I’ve never looked so angry in my life.  Not even when I lost the Fischer account.  Guy looks like he’s been constipated for a year.”  Then Dean laughs at his own joke and Castiel’s heart clenches.  When was the last time his Dean did that?  He can’t even remember Dean  _ smiling _ , not a genuine one that reached his eyes.

He swallows the lump in his throat.  “Oh?” he prompts.  

“Dude’s got permanent frown lines.”  Dean scrolls through his phone.  “I mean, what the hell crawled up his butt and died?”

Castiel wants to argue, but he snaps his mouth shut and grabs the notebook.  He feels like a child as he stalks to the balcony and slams the glass door shut behind him.  Clutching the notebook to his check, he stares at the city, still mostly quiet in the early weekend hours, and thinks.  

His Dean might’ve been a little rough around the edges at the end, but he certainly had earned that after all he’d been through.  Who was Dean Smith with his normal,  _ boring _ life to judge?  

In frustration, he slumps down onto the cold concrete and lets his head fall back onto the glass.  He doesn’t like anyone speaking poorly of Dean.  He didn’t like it would Dean would be self-deprecating, and this is a bizarre version of that, he supposes.  But his instincts tell him to fight against it, while at the same time he can’t help but acknowledge the truth behind it.  

He and this Dean, little by little they’ve gotten to know each other.  Dean thinks it’s catching up, but to Cas it’s been getting to know a new person.

(And in some rare, wonderful moments, it feels kinda like both.)

There’s something about this Dean.  He’s more carefree than the Dean he knew.  It’s not as though he doesn’t have concerns— his weight and diet, his work, his family— but the stress he feels is so much  _ less  _ than Dean Winchester’s ever was.  He’s happy, in perhaps a boring, completely mundane way.  But he  _ is _ happy.  And that happiness shines through in his smile and his eyes and…

And maybe Castiel misses seeing Dean—  _ any _ Dean— happy.

So with that in mind, he gives up on his immature act of rebellion.  He groans as he gets to his feet, running his hands through his hair.  It’s getting long, he thinks absently.  Maybe he should trim it soon.  Trepidation makes him pause, but then he decides he doesn’t give a shit and goes back into the apartment.  

“What are we doing today?”

Dean looks up and grins at him, putting his phone away.  “I’m sure we can think of something.”

\- - - -

Sometimes his dreams are truly bizarre.  No less terrifying than the rest, but simply strange in ways he can’t account for.

He travels around from city to city, a wavelength of light like he used to be.  It’s so disorienting.  It’s been so long, at least from his newfound human perspective, to be an untethered angel with no body to physically ground him.  Castiel tries to ignore this part of the dreams, focusing on the other details.

The darting around seems random at first, but after a while it seems too systematic to be anything but a search.  There’s annoyance under the surface.  Almost a sense of deja vu driving every action.  Like this whole thing is familiar and tedious, but necessary.  An underlying patience is there, too.  A certainty that it’ll be worthwhile, that victory will follow.

Flashes of faces.  Some agonized, some bored, some with their features twisted in an unnatural sneer.  All end the same way.  Lifeless on the ground with their eyes blown out.  Words like  _ inadequate _ and  _ useless _ and  _ pathetic _ are thrown around, yet he hears no voice and doesn’t know who’s projecting these thoughts on him.  

A sudden chill jolts him awake.  At some point he must have kicked off the blankets, so he reaches over the edge of the couch to retrieve them.  The perfectly white ceiling stares back at him as he considers what he saw.  But the images fade into the darkness, and he falls asleep with an idea nagging at the back of his mind.  

The idea that maybe that wasn’t a dream.

\- - - -

“So I was thinking,” Dean starts slowly, already gauging his reaction.  

Normally hearing Dean say that would mean some risky, half-cocked plan likely to get them killed or seriously injured.  With this Dean, it’s more likely he’s to suggest they do something truly crazy like get regular gelato instead of nonfat frozen yogurt.  He very forcefully ignores the part of himself already becoming fond of the man before him.

“Yes?” he asks with feigned indifference.  

“I don’t want you to think I’m not happy having you around, or I want something from you or—”

“Just spit it out, Dean,” he says, but not unkindly.

Dean looks adorably nervous.  His features twist into something reminiscent of a skittish animal.  “I was just wondering how you’d feel about getting a job.”  Then in a rush he adds, “Only if you want.  I’m seriously not trying to push you and I’m not asking for rent or anything.  I just thought maybe you’d like to get out of this place once in awhile.  Spend some time with people who aren’t me.”

“Oh.”  He pokes quietly at the peas still on his plate.  A job.  He’s had jobs, after a fashion.  Guard duty or patrol or scouting or, well, lots of things that involved subterfuge or killing.  But he’s never had a job that traded pay for work.  As an idea, it seems like a simple and perhaps even rewarding prospect.

But he has no credentials to speak of, and he doubts this Dean has any practice at forging them.  And it seems inherently dishonest about pretending to be the actual Castiel Novak of this world in a way that credit card fraud and fake FBI badges never was.  Perhaps because there is in fact a real person attached to the other end of his lies instead of just numbers in some system.  

“I don’t know about that…”  

There must be some of his unease in his voice, because Dean quickly jumps in, “It’s just a thought.”

And he does actually drop it.  He doesn’t push or nag or hint at it.  He leaves it up to Cas, who thinks it over.  Identity theft aside, he wouldn’t mind getting out more.  There have been plenty of times that he’s spent days cooped up inside, hiding in abandoned buildings until the Croats or demons trailing them had gotten bored and moved on.  Or when he’d gotten so damn high he’d lost huge chunks of time.  But this self-imposed exile might get boring eventually.  For him and for Dean, who bears the burden of being his only source of companionship.  

“Are there any local animal shelters or homeless shelters or libraries who might be looking for volunteers?”

When he mentions animals, Dean looks confused and maybe a little wary, but by the end he’s beaming in understanding.  “Yeah, there might be.  I’ll check it out.”

Dean eagerly gets applications for him, leaving them on the edge of the dining table.  It’s his one contribution, since he still doesn’t pressure Cas to make a decision or act.  Occasionally Cas will thumb through them.  The term ‘application’ is actually generous.  They ask very general questions such as name, address, and prior experience.  

(He wonders if wrestling a hellhound off of Dean counts as relevant experience for the animal shelter.  But given that he was an angel at the time, most likely not.)

One boring afternoon he starts filling them out, but signing his name  _ Castiel Novak _ still feels wrong and he gives up the endeavor.  

Maybe though.  Maybe.

\- - - -

Castiel knows instantly that he’s dreaming because it’s Dean.   _ His _ Dean, but happy and relaxing in Cas’ cabin while Cas rolls a joint at his desk.  Laughing at nothing and lazily watching Cas do his thing.

It’s no true dream though.  He remembers this.  He’d gotten Dean high to distract him from the anniversary of Detroit.  And then he’d done  _ other _ things to distract him.  

He takes a moment to revel in the sound of Dean’s giggling, to take in the moment.  The dream-faint scent of Dean’s musk and the look of his day old stubble.  The comfortable way he leans back on Cas’ bed and the hungry way his eyes follow Cas’ movements.

Once he’s gotten his fill, he fast forwards to the good stuff.

He’s always liked riding Dean.  Part of his need to take care of the broken man.  Like he could ease some of his burdens if he could just do this for him.  Make him happy, see him relaxed for a little while longer.  Smiling lovingly at him in these unguarded moments.  The words themselves were never uttered, but Cas was always certain of it when they were joined like this.

The dream shifts little by little.  But it doesn’t feel like his cabin anymore.  The draft is gone and the flickering candle light is something steady and artificial.  The sheets aren’t scratchy and threadbare, but luscious egyptian cotton.  The eyes staring into his are the same beautiful green flecked with gold, but they’re openly joyful.  Not angry grunts as Cas moves over him but breathy, delighted pants.

“You look so good like that Novak,” a voice teases.  Not pitched low to threaten or intimidate, but light and happy and—

Oh  _ god _ it’s… it’s not…

He rolls to the floor with a crash, knocking over a bottle of sparkling water. 

“Dude, you okay—?”

Castiel rather forcefully pulls away from Dean’s steadying hand.  He winces, too, and the other man looks hurt but backs off.  It’s unfortunate, but Cas can’t handle being touched right now.  Least of all by him.  Not after...

He’d been on the precipice of coming, and now he’s got an awkward boner to deal with as he scrambles back onto the couch and buries himself in his blankets.  He and Dean had been watching a movie— some generic action movie that had lost his interest and lulled him to sleep.  Then his ridiculous, totally inappropriate dream.

The leading actors start making out on screen, explosions going off in the background and Dean groaning and muttering how friggin’ hackneyed this romance plot is.  He also throws around the word  _ heteronormative _ like it’s supposed to mean something to Cas.  Then he goes back to complaining about the oversexualization of the female (and male) leads.

That was it, he reasons with himself.  The weird sex dream featuring Dean Smith wasn’t because he has any  _ interest _ in this Dean.  It was just a byproduct of falling asleep next to him while watching this nonsense.  Hell, maybe he’s  _ imagining _ that it was Dean Smith at the end there.  Maybe he’s just confused because he woke up so abruptly and Dean was there,  _ touching _ him—

_ Stop _ , he commands himself harshly.  

_ You do  _ **_not_ ** _ have any interest in any Dean but your own.  The dream meant  _ **_nothing_ ** _.  It’d be a betrayal of the worst kind to have feelings for another Dean.  After everything else.  After you failed him in the end.   _

He steals a glance at Dean.  Despite his earlier griping, he’s engrossed in the movie once again.  Popcorn is too fatty, so he’s snacking on carrot sticks.  Every time he takes a bite, there’s an audible snap.

_ They’re so  _ **_obviously_ ** _ different from each other.   _

Dean does a full body laugh at some cheesy one liner.  He catches Cas’ eye and grins like an idiot.  “‘I think he got the point,’” he quotes while pantomiming the villain getting stabbed in the chest.  “Jesus, where the hell do they get this garbage?  Because it’s  _ awesome _ .”

_ … And yet so fundamentally Dean. _


	8. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

On a breezy Sunday afternoon, Castiel disappears from the apartment.  He’s feeling closed in and antsy—in no small part because of a dream he’d had the night prior, reliving the pain and cabin fever he’d experienced when he broke his foot—and craves open skies.  Not the easiest thing to find in a city, but anything’s better than the apartment right now.

_ “What, my 15 foot ceilings ain’t good enough for you?” _ he hears Dean tease him. 

“No,” he laughs to himself.  Imagining Dean's mock indignation makes him grin happily.  

While Dean’s cooped up in his room taking a nap, there’s nothing within these large, empty (though admittedly nice) walls to ease his boredom. Cas grabs a post-it from the fridge and writes a note ( _ Out stretching my legs.  Be back to make dinner.  - Castiel) _ , leaving it haphazardly on the coffee table.  

As he’s walking away, he notices how one of the corners is already peeling off from the smooth surface. It doesn’t bother him, but he knows it’ll drive Dean crazy. Especially since it’s not completely parallel to the nearest edges of the table.  And with Cas’ notebook at an odd angle, it’s perfect bait for Dean’s OCD.  There’s no chance of the other man not seeing the note, and that makes Castiel hum happily to himself as he takes the stairs down to the first floor.

He does this sometimes. Disappears on long walks to clear his head.  With Dean Smith never more than a room away, Castiel occasionally feels suffocated.  Even when Dean's at work, the space is so inundated with his presence Castiel hardly even feels alone.  Or lonely, for that matter.

It's not that Dean hovers or pushes his company on Cas. He's happy to have Dean around.  Truly he is.  And therein lies the problem. 

He's  _ too _ comfortable with Dean, in ways he's only ever been with the Winchester brothers.  Even his own kin has never engendered such camaraderie. These walks, this space he keeps imposing between them, is a buffer he needs to keep away his guilt and uncertainty.  Because try as he might, he just can't forget that damned dream.

This time alone in the city helps keep him centered.  Reminds him who he really is (a fuck up who unwittingly escaped an apocalypse and his own certain death) and who he really craves (his Dean, forever and always, and no one else). Once he's sure he won't mistake his growing friendship with Dean Smith for more than it is, only then does he turn around and double back to the apartment complex.  

On the way he catches the unmistakable whiff of pot from an alley.  There's no denying part of him perks up in interest, wanting nothing more than to smoke away his problems and let a pleasant high replace his muddled thoughts. But the temptation is easily ignored so easily that it's barely even a temptation at all.

( _ “That's right, Cas, keep walking. So proud of you.” _ )

(He tells himself that he is  _ not _ pleased by the imagined praise.)

He rides that good feeling all the way home.

When he opens the front door, it takes Castiel a moment to understand what he's seeing.  And the moment he does, his good mood plummets.

Dean is sitting cross-legged on the couch, right where Cas normally sleeps.  He has a guilty look and an apologetic smile on his face. Cas’ eyes glance down and make out the unmistakable shape of his notebook on Dean's lap.

He suppresses the urge to march over there and snatch it right out of Dean's hands. Clutch it tightly to his chest and hope that doing so would make Dean forget whatever he happened to read.  

“What are you doing?” There should be anger behind his words, but he finds nothing but numbness. It's not hurt that fills him but dread.

_ How dare you invade my privacy! _ becomes  _ Please don't look at me like I'm crazy. _ It would hurt too much to see disbelief mixed with pity. From anyone else, it wouldn't matter. But he can't stand the thought of Dean thinking less of him.  

Dean's already had to put up with his addiction and surly behavior. A roommate who doesn't pay rent, whose sole contribution is that he can occasionally throw together a decent meal or pose a decent challenge when they play cards. The man's a saint for having put up with his shit for this long.  Better, in fact, than a lot of actual saints, if Castiel's memory is to be trusted.

But delusions on top of everything else?

He'll be homeless by the end of the night for sure.  

Dean-less, too, but thinking about that right now would only serve to make him march out of here and right back to that alley.  Maybe they'd have something stronger than weed to drown his sorrows.

“Sorry,” Dean says sheepishly as he turns bright red.  “You uh…  You left it open.  You've actually been doing that a lot lately.  Kinda thought it was an open invitation and I’ve just not been getting the hint.”

Castiel opens his mouth to protest, but then snaps it shut. It's true. He used to be very careful about closing it back up and tucking it into the front pocket of the red backpack he still keeps.  But more and more he hasn't bothered. Recently he's merely tossed it in the table or floor before falling head first into troubled dreams.

Considering his general lack of surprise it anger at finding Dean perusing through his notes, maybe it  _ was _ an invitation. 

“You shouldn't snoop,” he scolds and crossing his arms over his chest protectively. As if it can in any way keep Dean from crushing his heart. 

Dean relaxes a bit and rolls his eyes. “Oh please,” he says, matching Cas’ easy tone (which sounds equally forced and uncertain). “Look who's talking, Mr. I-snoop-through-other-people’s-nightstands-for-fun.  At least this,” and he holds up the journal for emphasis, “was lying around, already open.”

An embarrassing amount of heat floods his cheeks.  “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Uh huh.  And my yearbook pages just magically bent themselves, just like my nightstand drawer magically left itself ajar.” Dean smiles triumphantly when Cas doesn't counter his claim. “Dude, you'd make a terrible thief.”

The last of the tension dissolves. They're both apparently guilty of invading the other's space, and neither seems to mind.  

Cas kicks off his sandals (now hopeful that he won't be abruptly kicked out onto the street) and crosses the living room to sit down on the closest couch arm.  His feet rest barely an inch away from Dean's thigh.  Close enough to enjoy the heat radiating off of him. 

“In my defense,” he starts, mostly to distract himself and Dean from their proximity, “I was high.” Then after a second's pause, he confesses, “The first time, anyway.”

Dean's eyes go wide in surprise. “You've looked at my yearbooks more than once.”

Indeed he has. Many times. At first it was a fascination with the other Castiel. He'd stared at the pictures for hours, trying to find something of himself there. It was an exercise in frustration that he'd eventually abandoned.  

Instead he'd focused on the photos of a young Dean Smith. Tried to imagine what Dean Smith thought of Castiel Novak. How it must have been something profound if he were willing to take the man in over a decade later with little to no questions.

He flashes a smug smile. “Guess I'm not such a terrible thief after all, huh?” A playful kick makes his foot tingle strangely and he immediately regrets it. 

“Great thing to say to your roommate, by the way. ‘I'm an excellent thief, but never you mind if the good silver goes missing.’”

“Oh I'd go right for the silver, would I?”

Something dark flashes through Dean’s eyes even as he tries to laugh at the joke. He holds up the notebook a couple times. “I’m actually surprised how often silver comes up in here.  Silver bullets, silver daggers, at one point I think you talk about some potion with melted silver in it.” Castiel keeps his face neutral as he mentally tallies how many old cases he’s written about. At least three that involve silver, if he remembers correctly.  “Dude… What the fuck  _ is _ this?”

Again his fingers itch to reach over and snatch away the evidence of his former life, but what’s the use? Dean’s already read it. Or at least  _ some _ of it. Enough to know that Castiel isn’t normal.

“It’s my life. Well, mostly the last five years of it. I think I touch on some of the earlier stuff but I don’t think most of that was in English so…”  He lets himself trail off, well aware of how fragile this moment is.

“You believe all this?”

Dean’s disbelief hits a nerve, touching upon his own insecurities. The growing fear that maybe it  _ was _ the drugs or he  _ is _ crazy. It’s not like he has any proof (except a broken heart). It’s not a true fear, not one with the power to destroy or even hurt him. Just one that creeps up on him sometimes late at night when his actual nightmares have chased off sleep.  

But his own certainty in what happened will never be enough to convince anyone else.  

There’s of course an easy out. Blame it on the drugs, say it’s just a story. But denying it hurts.  These people, those events,  _ deserve _ to be remembered. Who is he to deny them that?

“Go ahead and dismiss it as a fever dream or drug fueled hallucination, but yes. Every word of it.”

There’s silence. The weight of it fills the air and makes it hard to breath. Castiel uses the time to take in the sight of Dean. Memorize every line of his face and how he holds his body and the shape of him with his clothes on. If he’s about to be kicked out, he at least wants a fresh image to take with him for safekeeping.

“When you first showed up,” Dean starts slowly, looking down at the notebook, “You said you couldn’t tell if you were high or dead or dreaming or what.” Now he looks up at Castiel, eyes shining. “You were surprised to see me because you thought I was dead.”

“It’s…  I know  _ you _ aren’t dead…” He struggles to find words adequate to explain all of this. “I’m not from… here.” He waves a hand around the apartment and towards the windows. “This world is  _ similar _ to mine, and when I first arrived, and I—”

There’s a flurry of activity as Dean flips through the notebook. He finds the page he’s looking for and holds up the sketch of Dean he’d commented on before. “You thought I was him.”

“Yes.  That’s—”

“Dean Winchester. I know.”  Dean blushes. “Sorry. You were, uhm, gone a long time. I read quite a bit.”

“It’s… it’s alright.” Is it, though? Castiel isn’t upset. Just waiting for the other shoe to drop.  

_ Get out, Cas. I didn’t sign up for this shit when I let you stay here. Nice knowing you and all that, but it’s over. _

“So what was it like, living like that?”  

Castiel can’t help the look of confusion that crosses his face. Dean’s skepticism is still evident, but it’s not hostile or mocking. It’s gentle and open, like he wants to understand instead of judge.  

Huh. That doesn’t sound like his Dean at all.

“I don’t know where to start,” he confesses.

“Okay.”  Dean turns to a sketch of the camp.  “What’s this place? I mean, there are some notes and stuff, but I still don’t quite get it.  You lived here?”

“Yes. We all did. All the survivors we found and the others who were fighting.”  

It takes some more guidance on Dean’s part, but soon he’s going on and on about it. Writing it down was nice, but there’s something about  _ saying _ it out loud.  _ Telling _ someone, sharing the experiences and knowing they’ll live on with someone else and not just him. And best of all, not  _ judging  _ him for it.  

“And that was the end of the Impala. She’s still at the camp, forgotten and abandoned and—”  He stops mid-word. Brow furrowed, he carefully asks, “Do you believe any of this?”

Dean answers with just as much care. “Not really, but I believe you believe it, if that helps.”

Strangely it does.

When Castiel makes up to cook dinner, his growling stomach prompting him to get up, Dean follows him into the kitchen. He keeps asking questions while Cas works, hovering over his shoulders to help cook and to keep him talking. Conversation continues while they eat and then do the dishes together.  

In fact, they stay up well into the night talking. Dean, despite making it clear that he doesn’t buy into it, does a good job of pretending. Cas figures Dean sees it all as some elaborate fantasy as Cas’ way of coping with all the shit that’s happened to him, and if it’s helping in some way, he’s not going to take it away from him.

Of all the things Dean Smith has done for him— and there are a lot by now, little things and big things that have amassed together over the past few weeks—  _ this _ is the one that makes Castiel’s chest tighten in fondness.  

No, not fondness, he corrects.  _ Appreciation. _ He  _ appreciates _ what Dean’s doing for him. Just like he  _ appreciates _ Dean. Fond is too intimate for what he should feel for the man, so Cas brutally erases all traces of the thought.  

\- - - -

A few days later Cas lies sprawled across the couch. He’s throwing a rubber band ball into the air over and over, surprised at how much better his reflexes have gotten since he purged his system of narcotics. Funny how that works. As he marvels at his own dexterity, he babbles to Dean about the world he lost. About when he used to be an angel and  _ matter.  _ (Only, nothing he ever did as an angel really mattered in the end, did it?  Except for that  _ one _ time in Hell.)  

Dean sits in the armchair next to him, listening. When Cas really gets going, he doesn’t need Dean prompting him for more. So instead the other man picks up Cas’ journal and writes it down for him.  Cas isn’t sure why he does it.  Whether he thinks Cas wants him to or for something to do or maybe because it makes him feel more connected to Castiel.  

He doubts it’s the last one.

The first time was over lunch. Cas’ hand started cramping as he made notes, and when he shook it out and popped the knuckles to try and ease some of the discomfort, Dean had slid the book towards himself and grabbed the pen. “You talk, I’ll write.” And that was that.

After a long, rambling explanation of how they managed to sneak back to camp without a pair of demons following them, Castiel sighs wistfully. “It was Dean’s idea. He was always so good at that sort of thing.” He catches the ball and presses it tightly to his chest, hoping to replace one pain with another. Very quietly he adds, “I miss him.”

“Dude, I’m  _ right here _ .”  

Castiel sits up a bit to glare at him. “You know what I mean.”

Dean mutters something under his breath.  It sounds disparaging, but the only word he picks out is  _ idiot _ .  

Falling back onto the couch, he waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t be jealous, you’re not bad yourself.”

“Great. I’m ‘not bad’ but I’m not Dean-Winchester-awesome either.”

There’s something in his tone that worries Castiel. He can’t pin it down and it makes anxiety roil through his stomach. “Dean…” he starts uneasily. He’s not sure what to say next, so he lets the echo of Dean’s name hang between them.

After a moment, Dean sighs. “It’s fine Cas. Don’t worry about it. So tell me what Chuck thought of the moonshine you brought him.”


	9. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

His nightmares calm down for a stretch of time that he foolishly thinks they might be over. In the midst of that false sense of security, the worst dream yet takes him completely by surprise.

This time he has a vessel, one that struggles to contain his grace. It’s so uncomfortable, unlike anything Castiel’s experienced. This body doesn’t fit, isn’t meant to contain the fire within slowly burning it to pieces. The earlier dreams where he was bodyless and always on the move, those had left him dizzy and longing for something physical to keep him settled. Now he has it and it feels so  _ wrong _ he wants to tear the skin off this stolen body to free himself.  

Though he sees through this body’s eyes, feels its heart beating in its chest, goes where it goes, he controls nothing. He’s along for the ride as it stalks through an ordinary apartment building, much more modest than Dean Smith’s home. He stops outside a heavy wood door with burgundy paint chipping in places. With a deceptively light touch, the door is pushed off its hinges, deadbolt and all.

He moves through the small, cluttered apartment. There’s no one in the front rooms. Without pause, he continues straight into the back. The first door reveals an office, desk stacked high with papers and bookshelf overflowing. Besides a cursory look, the room holds no interest and he moves on.  

At the end of the hallway there are two doors. One’s open to a small bathroom, the other is ajar.  He pushes his way inside with more force than necessary, the door flying off its hinges. A disheveled man jumps in his bed, blankets flying in a whirlwind as he turns to the source of the noise. Castiel stalks towards him menacingly, reaching forward to grab the man by his throat only to come face to face with himself.

His doppelganger’s eyes go wide and his arms scramble up to try and loosen the choking grip.  Cas gets a better look at the man as his grip tightens, unable to ignore the differences between himself and this terrified spectre. At first he appeared to be a mirror image, but the details don’t line up. No dark circles under his eyes or worry lines. Clean shaven without a hint of scruff. Hair short and well kept, even though sleep has rendered it slightly messy. The hands clinging to him are soft, void of callouses or the nicks and cuts Castiel’s collected over his tenure as a human, scarred over but still very much there.  

The contrast is almost as drastic as between Dean Winchester and Smith.

The realization sends a chill through him, but the false body he wears doesn’t react. If anything, his grip tightens.

“Castiel,” a sultry voice says, enunciating each syllable. Not his, and he notices now that the fingers crushing his double’s windpipe are too small and feminine to be his either. “You were difficult to find.”

Blue eyes look on in terror. They bulge slightly from the lack of air. There’s no recognition, no understanding of what’s happening around him.  

“Where are you hiding the Winchesters? I’ve looked and looked, and can find nothing of them.  No John or Mary. No Sam or Dean. Not even the surrogate father Bobby Singer seems to exist here. So tell me what you’ve done and how you’ve done it, and maybe your death will be swift.”

The man before him gags. Belatedly the hold loosens, as if the person controlling this body only now remembers that people need to be able to breathe to speak.

“I- I don’t—.  What’s going on?” he stutters.  “Who are you?  Why are you doing this?   _ How _ are you doing this—?”

Harsh hands grab his face and twist his head. Castiel can see into the depths of this man fear, a bottomless pit of terror. (Even as he sleeps and watches this nightmare unfold before him, he’s aware of his own anxiety ratcheting up to match. Somewhere his own body is sweating and his own heart is hammering erratically.) Nails dig into his flesh and the poor, confused man whimpers in agony.  

The staring match goes on for some time before the man is thrown back onto his bed. A sound of disgust escapes from Castiel, and he can  _ feel _ the disappointment raging inside. “You’re not my fallen brother,” he sneers, though the velvety smoothness of the voice almost makes it sound like a caress. “You’re  _ useless _ .”

The poor man tries to escape.  Flings himself away only to run into his headboard.  Castiel takes a step onto the bed, towering over him. Savoring the moment before the kill. Then lightning fast he dives down, ripping the man’s throat out and reveling in the feel of blood dripping from his fingers…

\- - - -

He’s thrashing so hard he actually manages to not only knock over the coffee table but the couch as well. Writhing in the blankets, vertigo overcomes him as the couch topples over and lands on its back. He hears his poor double’s screams, remembering all too clearly how it felt to kill the man. In his panic, he can’t understand how he can still hear it if he’s awake now. He should be  _ safe _ . It should be  _ over _ . Why won’t the screaming stop?

“Cas!  Cas!   _ Castiel _ !”  

It’s not until Dean slaps him none too gently does he gasp in surprise. The scream abruptly cuts off and he realizes they came from him, not his wretched dream-self.  

He’s shaking, almost as badly as when he got clean, and it’s with great effort that he manages to clench his fists enough to make it stop. Dean’s arm is around his shoulders, a grounding presence that Castiel oh so wants to give in to. As rattled as he is, he’s finding it difficult to remember why he shouldn’t.

Once he’s had a chance to recover, Dean rubs soothing circles on his back and asks softly, “You okay?” 

No.

“Yes.” He closes his eyes, only to be assaulted by fresh images of his hands drenched in blood, so he immediately forces them open to meet Dean’s questioning gaze. “I’m fine. Just another—”

“Nightmare?”  Given the screams and the states of the living room, Dean would of course already know. It shames Castiel nonetheless. “Yeah, I kinda got that. This uh… this a common thing for you?”

He shrugs. Only in that he dreads going to sleep, wondering what fresh torments await him.  Something so common he’s been able to hide it from Dean for months. The only reason Dean’s now been alerted to his troubled sleep is that this dream was particularly lifelike and horrific, breaking down all the careful barriers Castiel took to keep it hidden.

“It’s not…  _ un _ common,” he hedges.  

Dean sighs and removes his hand from Castiel’s back to pinch the bridge of his nose. Castiel tries not to mourn the loss of contact. “Alright, well, let’s get this cleaned up.”

Together they set the couch and table back where they belong, then collect the scattered pillows and blanket. Dean fluffs the pillows before tossing them on the couch and gesturing expectantly at Castiel. He eyes Dean warily but lays down. He expects Dean to throw the blankets over him, or maybe if he’s feeling particularly generous to tuck Castiel in. What he doesn’t expect is for Dean to lift Cas’ legs up and crawl underneath them.  

Dean makes himself cozy with Cas’ legs draped over his lap, then spreads the blankets over both of them. Cas watches in confusion as Dean digs around the couch cushions for the remote, turning the TV on to a low volume. The background noise and dim lighting are oddly soothing.

(Yes. The  _ TV _ is soothing. It has nothing to do with the man pressed all along his lower body, offering comfort with his presence and touch like it’s nothing. Of course not.)

He falls asleep like that, shielded from bad thoughts by a man absentmindedly squeezing his knee and humming along to infomercials. Somehow, blessedly, it keeps the nightmares at bay for the rest of the night.

Instead Castiel’s haunted by dreams of green eyes and plump lips pressed tauntingly to his neck.

\- - - -

They don’t talk about the  _ incident _ the next morning.  

Castiel’s rudely woken up by Dean tossing off his legs and disappearing toward the bathroom.  He rolls over and gives in to a half-formed thought of how easy it would be to crawl to the other side of the couch and bury himself in Dean’s scent.  

_ I wonder if he smells the same... _

He drifts in and out of consciousness, never letting the thought fully form for fear he’ll give in to the temptation. It’s not until Dean’s reappeared and started making his morning smoothie and coffee that Castiel perks up. Jumping off the couch, he rushes to the kitchen.  

“Coffee,” he demands in a sleep-wrecked voice that has Dean staring at him for a full ten seconds.  

Dean finally blinks in confusion. “You don’t like coffee.”

“True, but I’m tired as fuck all. Coffee.” Then, because he doesn’t want to seem like a total ass, he adds, “Please.”

Although he seems on the verge of protesting, Dean merely adds more powder to the pot and goes back to his room to get dressed. Dean’s morning routine is so perfectly timed that he’s back just as the coffee’s done brewing. Buttoning up the cuffs of his crimson shirt, he silently pours Castiel a mug of his own.  

Just as eager as Dean is to avoid conversation, Castiel ducks out onto the balcony and doesn’t dare step back inside until well after Dean’s left for work. He just stays there, leaning over the edge and wondering if the bad dreams are real or some sort of punishment. For surviving, for failing, for craving the company of another Dean. In the end he decides that would be just but too poetic.

He spends the first half of the morning acquainting himself with the coffee maker, learning how to make a fresh pot. Then when that brew’s done, he plays around with the other fancy looking coffee beans. Experimenting yields cups that almost taste good and a few that smell worse than the “coffee” Bobby used to make from recycled coffee grounds, tea leaves, and a mystery ingredient Castiel’s pretty sure was battery acid.  

They don’t talk about it that evening when Dean returns. Dean looks exhausted as well, and they barely manage to get through dinner and half a sitcom before Dean’s practically falling asleep on his elliptical. Castiel wordlessly walks over and turns the thing off, glaring at Dean until the other man sighs. With slumped shoulders he retreats to his room for the night.

Castiel’s wired enough that he can’t fall asleep. The dark quiet can’t lull him under, and even as he tosses and turns, he can’t help but smile. He gets maybe two hours of not-quite-sleep, and he’s so relieved that he tricks himself into thinking he’s well rested.

He preemptively beats Dean to the kitchen, making them both coffee so that Dean won’t see his dwindling supplies. The other man seems startled to find Cas already up and about, but he smiles appreciatively when he’s handed a steaming cup.

“You have a better night?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Good. Good.”

It’s as close as they get to discussing it. And it’s  _ too _ close for comfort.

Alone again, Castiel takes stock of his caffeine inventory. There wasn’t much coffee left to begin with, and he put a significant dent in it the previous day. Dean’s not one for coffee or the like, so that leaves him with maybe five cups of coffee and maybe a dozen cups of tea. Of course, factoring in Dean’s morning coffee, that’s barely enough caffeine to last another day.

He buys the cheapest dinner ingredients he can find (hopefully Dean won’t mind a very generic spaghetti and meatballs), then spends the rest of Dean’s cash on soda, coffee, and energy drinks. The cashier takes in the massive amounts of caffeine and the dark circles under Castiel’s eyes and whistles. “You got finals coming up or something?”

“I have no idea what that means and I’m too fatigued to care. How much?”

The young girl shakes her head but keeps working without further comment. Good. He doesn’t like nosy strangers judging him. One of the few perks of his old world, no one gave a shit what he did or who he was, so long as he could pull his weight.

There’s a little space in the back of the pantry that Dean’s cleared out for him. After replacing the amount of coffee he drank yesterday, the rest gets carefully hidden behind the bag of Skittles and box of Twinkies. He can’t even fathom the circumstances necessary to compel Dean Smith to poke around so much corn syrup and saturated fats.  

Once again he finds himself self-medicating, but this time with a drug that’s socially acceptable to be dependent on. He’s not quite sure if that will matter, though, should Dean find out.

Whatever. As long as it keeps him awake at night, he’s happy. He can deal with the consequences later.

He’s a little twitchy throughout dinner. His mind longs for rest—his thoughts dull and slow, he can barely keep up with whatever Dean’s saying. But if he’s not mistaken, the last of the tension from their shared night on the couch has finally dissipated. Of course it’s been replaced with concerned looks whenever Castiel zones out.  

But that makes it all too easy for Castiel to give an exaggerated yawn (that’s actually about ninety percent real and ten percent exaggeration for effect) and crawl onto the couch to “sleep.” Dean quietly cleans up after dinner, does a quick workout on the elliptical while Cas pretends to snore, the whole time counting Dean’s strides and feeling his own blood ring in his ears.  

It’s actually unfortunate that he isn’t asleep, because when Dean’s done, Cas can feel him hover over him for a moment. He remains still while Dean grabs the blankets that have slipped down to leave Cas’ shoulder bare and covers him up again.  Tries not to react when he hears a whispered  _ G’night Cas _ before heavy footsteps recede. The room goes dark and Dean’s presence is gone.

Castiel stays there, tense and mildly alarmed at the warm sensation in his chest trying to make itself known. It’s familiar enough that he could probably name the emotion if he tried, but he doesn’t want to. Then words like  _ fondness _ and  _ affection _ (and worst of all, maybe even  _ desire _ ) will be floating around in his head and he doesn’t know how to handle that.

When he’s sure Dean’s fallen asleep, he grabs his notebook and slips out onto the balcony.  There’s enough lights from the city to see, so for the first time, Castiel goes back to the beginning of the book and reads it.  He yawns and droops to the side, but as much as he craves sleep, his body is wired enough that it won’t let him.  

Thank goodness for small miracles.

He stays up most of the night reading (and re-reading, when his brain momentarily shuts off and he finds himself looking over the same sentence over and over again). Not so much to relive that life, but to remind himself of just how much he loved Dean Winchester. It seems important that he drill that point into his head, make sure his treacherous heart remembers it before it gets any foolish ideas.

A honk jolts awake and he realizes it’s early morning.  He must have dozed off at some point, but thankfully he slept too lightly to dream.  Castiel scrambles back into the apartment, barely managing to get to the couch before Dean’s bedroom door opens.  

The man’s already dressed and about to head out the door. He takes in Cas’ haggard state and raises an eyebrow, but otherwise gives no comment. The silent reproach in his eyes says enough.  

“Hey, I’ve got a work dinner thing to go to, so I’ll have to eat there.” Dean grabs a banana from the counter and tucks it into his briefcase. “I should be back by seven or eight though, if you wanna have a game night or something.”

“Sounds good. Bye.” He sounds eager, far too eager, for Dean to leave and it almost makes him feel bad. But he can feel drowsiness creeping up on him and he does  **not** want to fall asleep.  

Dean gives him a once over. “Alright then. Take it easy, man.” There’s something in his tone, almost a warning, as he waves and heads out the door.  

Castiel doesn’t even wait for it to click shut before Cas is rushing to the kitchen, ready to tear into the first bag of coffee he can find and—

It’s gone.  

The pantry  _ is _ dark, maybe he just can’t see it. Castiel practically throws the Skittles and Twinkies on the floor to get a clearer look at basically an empty part of the pantry. “Shit,” he hisses. He stares in disbelief before determination takes over. He looks  _ everywhere _ in the kitchen. Takes everything out of the pantry and finds nothing. Goes through all the cupboards and finds nothing.  Looks in Dean’s coffee supply and even that has disappeared.

Fucking fuckity fuck.

Castiel wants to tear his hair out or punch the wall or  _ something _ .  

In a moment of inspiration, he goes to the drawer where Dean keeps cash for him.  It’s empty, of course. He spent everything on the caffeine and never bothered to tell Dean. Which was all well and good when he was stocked up enough to last a few days, but now it’s  _ gone _ and he’s fucked.  

Desperation starts to kick in and he rushes to Dean’s closet and digs through his shoes.  His Dean always kept spare cash in the toes of his boots, just in case.  This Dean appears not much different, but all he can find is a few wadded up ones and a torn five dollar bill.  Completely useless, he throws them on the ground.

There’s already a headache forming behind his eyes. He downs a couple of glasses of water, hoping it’ll keep the ill effects of caffeine withdrawal and exhaustion at bay, then starts pacing the full length of the apartment. 

Plan plan he needs a plan he needs caffeine or something, he can’t  _ sleep _ for fuck’s sake, can’t look into dead eyes that in all other ways mirror his own, can’t watch some spectre flit about wreaking havoc on unsuspecting men and women—

_ Calm down, _ a familiar voice whispers to him.  _ Breathe, Cas. In and out. It sucks but you’ll get through it. _

“Shut up shut up shut  _ up _ ,” he yells at the voice trying to comfort him with empty words (and which sounds suspiciously like Dean Smith).  

The day is awful from there on out. He’s ransacked the entire kitchen, and there’s nothing even remotely promising. Sure, there’s sugar, but the rush of energy that would give him isn’t worth the inevitable crash afterward. The best he can do is make himself some decaffeinated tea and try to stay active.

By the time Dean gets home—punctually at seven, as promised—Cas is a tired and agitated mess. He’s sweaty and groggy and a little short tempered and possibly going to collapse at any moment. Dean looks at him with wide eyes and lets out a whistle.  “Damn. I knew you’d be in rough shape, but I kinda hoped you’d take a hint and get some sleep.”

Castiel whirls on the man, wishing he still had the power to smite because, “What did you  _ do _ with it?”

Purposefully, Dean slowly takes off his suit jacket and then his tie, laying them over the back of a chair.  Sits down to untie his shoes and carefully remove them one at a time. Then the bastard rolls up his sleeves. He pointedly ignores Castiel’s glare and walks to the pantry. Which is bullshit, Castiel knows the coffee and soda isn’t in there.  Yet Dean kneels down, reaches in… and pulls out a large paper bag.  

He puts it on the counter and pulls out a soda just enough to prove to Cas what’s inside, then closes the bag back up.  

“I looked through that  _ whole _ pantry. How did you do that? Where was it?” He’s kinda pissed but also kind of impressed.

“I hid it behind the cleaning supplies. Figured you wouldn’t look there. Guess I was right.”

Aghast, Castiel walks over to take another look in the pantry. Sure enough, there’s a bucket filled with sponges, bottles of soap, and a pair of long rubber gloves. Behind it is a space just large enough to fit the bag. It had never  _ occurred _ to him to look there. That’s not for food, that’s for Dean’s cleaning obsession.  

The devious bastard. He’d used Cas’ own idea against him, knowing Castiel wouldn’t think twice about checking down there.

“Foiled by a damn bottle of Mr. Clean,” he grumbles as he slams the pantry door shut. “When did you even  _ do _ this?”

Dean smiles at him as he casually leans against the counter. With the smug grin in place, he’s identical to Dean Winchester. Hell, in that white button down with the top two buttons done, he could _ be _ Dean Winchester back when he played at being an FBI agent.

It throws him for a loop to be confronted by Dean’s ghost and he nearly misses what Dean Smith says.

“Did it while you were sleeping out on the balcony.”

Fuck, how long was he out if Dean managed all that? He’s lucky he didn’t fall into nightmares while he was out there. “But  _ why _ ?” he asks petulantly.

“Seriously?  You’re joking right?” Castiel gives him a look that says that he most certainly isn’t.  “Dude,  _ no _ . You can’t just…” He runs his hands through his hair as he collects himself. “You can’t just replace one addiction with another. I know caffeine ain’t exactly frowned upon, but it’s not good for you.”

“If it’s so bad, why do  _ you _ drink it?” It’s a weak deflection, but it’s all he’s got right now.

“I drink a cup of coffee in the morning before I go to work. One cup. Sometimes none. I don’t chug five cups a day on top of sugared caffeine and energy drinks. You’re just drinking a cocktail of stimulants to avoid a problem instead of  _ dealing _ with the problem.”

Dean’s not wrong.

Doesn’t mean Castiel wants to hear it.

“You have a better idea?” he snaps angrily. “You have some non-toxic, gluten free garbage that’s going to miraculously keep me from having nightmares? Because if so, I’m all ears.  Until then, this is the only—”

“There is another solution.”  Dean says it so quietly Cas has to lean forward to hear him. “You uh… you seemed to sleep just fine when I was there on the couch with you.”

They stare at each other. Dean’s face is the perfect image of impassivity. Castiel’s is no doubt suspicious bewilderment.

“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

Dean shrugs. “I’m just saying—”

“The couch isn’t big enough for both of us,” Castiel protests, stopping Dean from making the offer out loud. Because if he  _ says _ it, truly puts it out there, then it’ll be that much harder to ignore.  “You looked terrible after you slept there the other night.”

Dean’s quiet for a moment. “My bed’s plenty big enough for the two of us.”

It’s true. They could each have their own side. No need for any contact, especially if they each had their own blanket...

“ _ No, _ ” he says firmly. “Absolutely not.”

If Dean’s surprised or hurt by the refusal, there’s nothing in his body language or tone to give it away. “Suit yourself.”

Once again he finds himself in the uncomfortable position of watching Dean steal his drug horde.  Granted, this time the drugs aren’t nearly as detrimental to his health (or as exciting), but still. He packs them into a paper bag, preparing to take them to work the next day. In solidarity, he doesn’t even put his own coffee back in the cupboard. Says something about giving it up if Cas will.

As an additional sign of good faith, though, Dean doesn’t hide them in his room. He leaves them in plain sight by his briefcase, trusting Castiel not to dive in once he’s been left alone.

He’s tempted to. Fuck is he tempted to.  

But Dean does a good job of distracting him with a documentary on GMOs or some other crap Castiel doesn’t understand or give a shit about. But it’s definitely entertaining to listen to Dean heckle the narrator and interviewees as they support practices that Dean quite vocally objects to.  He’s actually half asleep by the time it’s over.

He still dreads sleep, but he resigns himself to it. There’s nothing to be done. Both his mind and his body are exhausted. No matter how much he might protest, it’s inevitable. Dean awkwardly wishes him a good night, lingering in the hallway for a moment like he wants to say more.  

Thankfully he doesn’t.  

You’d think with how tired Cas is, he’d fall asleep quickly. But no, now that he’s resigned himself to sleep, it eludes him. Because now there’s an idea in his head. One that seems dangerous but oh so appealing.  

Stubbornly, he curls the blankets more tightly around himself. For hours, he tosses and turns before he gives in. His pride isn’t worth the agony he’ll experience if he falls asleep and nightmares are determined to plague him. Even after he makes the decision, it takes a good twenty minutes for him to talk himself into actually getting up.  

He marches down the hallway to Dean’s room, pushing the door open as quietly as possible. It’s much darker in here than in the living room. Heavy curtains are pulled closed over the windows and only the faint red glow of Dean’s alarm clock provides any light to see by. Castiel tiptoes towards the bed, unsure how to even approach—

As if sensing his presence, Dean stirs. In the dark, they eye each other. Castiel stays there frozen, about to apologize and head back to the couch when Dean pulls back some of the blankets and then silently scooches to the far end of the bed. Rolling over, the sounds of snoring pick up before Cas has managed to crawl in behind him.  

His earlier guess was right. There’s a good two feet of empty space in the middle of the bed, and the comforter sags between them to try and fill it. Castiel tries to make himself comfortable. The pillow and sheets are still warm, and the faint scent of shampoo lingers. He spends a few minutes trying to identify each strand of the smell.

He’s asleep before he gets past  _ lilac _ .

  
  



	10. Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine**

The world tilts on its axis when Castiel wakes up the next morning and everything’s fine.  His sleep was unburdened, with any dreams he may have had blissfully forgotten the moment he opens his eyes.  He feels well rested.  

And Dean Smith has kept a respectful distance between them.

He’s so pleased about having the best night of sleep he can remember, Castiel’s willing to admit to himself that he’s just a teensy bit disappointed.  But only a very, very little.  It’s negligible, really, how disappointed he is to find himself alone on his side of the bed.  A tiny moment of weakness, and that probably has nothing to do with Dean Smith at all.

How many times has he woken up with Dean Winchester in his arms?  Dean, who shrugged off affection as much as possible, was so touch starved that every night he’d scooch over on their shared bed and bury his face in Cas’ hair, force Cas’ arms around him until they were pressed flush against each other from head to toe.  He was such a cuddler—though he’d never admit it—and perhaps Castiel expected this Dean to be the same.

It’s longing for  _ his _ Dean that fills his chest right now.  Not longing to be closer to the man he crawled into bed with.

He stares so long at Dean’s sleeping profile that the other man’s breathing eventually catches on a snore and he blinks awake.  Castiel can’t bring himself to turn away.  He finds himself mesmerized by the way he rubs the sleep from his eyes and runs a hand through his hair, turning to face Castiel.

_ “C’mon Cas, we’ve talked about this.  Personal space?  No staring at people while they sleep?  It’s creepy.” _

He braces himself for the oncoming sense of deja vu.  But when Dean opens his mouth to speak, what he actually says is  _ so much worse. _

“Mornin’ sunshine,” Dean says around a huge yawn.  There’s a happy little smile on his face, and Castiel doesn’t know what to do with something so precious and rare directed his way.  

No suitable answer to that springs to mind, so Castiel remains silent.  

Unfazed, Dean pushes out of bed.  “How’d you sleep?” he asks on his way to the bathroom.

_ Wonderfully.  Superbly.  Best sleep I’ve gotten in months if not years.   _

“Better.”

A wink and a smile are flashed his way before Dean’s out of the room.  “Cool.”  

And then Castiel’s alone in a bed big enough for two wondering just what the fuck he got himself into.  

\- - - -

He bolts from the bedroom as quickly as possible, making sure he’s not still there when Dean’s done getting ready for work.  They don’t say much before Dean leaves, and Castiel’s thankful for that.

Most of the day is spent moping.  He’d hoped that this little co-sleeping experiment wouldn’t work.  Not because he doesn’t appreciate a solid five hours of sleep, but because it’s so damned  _ awkward _ .  How is he supposed to react around Dean now?  That doesn’t seem possible.

Yet Dean acts as if nothing’s changed.  There’s no obvious shift in their relationship (aside from, of course, Castiel’s stilted conversation over dinner), no change to their routine.  

Except that when Dean turns off the TV that night, he gestures with his head down the hallway and waits for the ex-angel to follow.  

They still keep dutifully to their own sides of the bed.  This time, though, Castiel has his own blanket.  With an extra barrier between them, he should feel more at ease.  He’s barely even surprised that he isn’t.  

The next morning, Castiel wakes up first and finds himself once again face to face with a sleeping Dean Smith.  This time, he doesn’t indulge in staring at the man next to him.  Instead he immediately rolls out of bed and decides to do something useful like make breakfast.  

A week passes like that.  

Dean goes to work.  Cas entertains himself during the day, makes dinner during the evening.  They play a game or watch TV together until one of them’s yawning too much to ignore.  Then they share a bed, with an invisible line split right down the middle.  Not once has either come within an inch of that line.  Dean’s trying to be respectful, no doubt.  Cas is simply terrified.

But he can’t bring himself to go back to the couch.  Like it or not, there hasn’t been a single nightmare since he started sleeping in Dean’s bed.  Cas isn’t ready to give up a fitful night’s sleep just to be petty.

So as long as there are no nightmares, Cas will keep sleeping in a bed that’s admittedly ten times more comfortable than the sofa.  He’ll keep breathing in the faint smell of Dean’s shampoo and fall asleep listening to the gentle rhythm of Dean’s light snores.  And he’ll deal with occasionally having to feign sleep in an effort to hide his inappropriate morning wood.

That’s not to say things are perfect.  

Aside from his own introspective issues—which he’s more than capable of ignoring, thank you very much (one of the many perks of dating a Winchester)—there are the growing number of things from the world around him that are increasingly difficult to explain away.  

Now and again, he still manages to catch disturbing things in the news.  The unusual murders are picking up at rate that is starting to alarm even the unsuspecting people of this world.   And then there’s the bizarre closure of a bottled water plant two states over.  None of the news broadcasters connect the two issues.  Why should they?  Castiel only sees the pattern because he’s already  _ lived _ it.  

They do, however, catch Dean’s attention.  

“Huh, kinda like in your notebook.”  

Castiel tries to look unperturbed.  “A little.”

“So you’re not worried?”

He shrugs and keeps his eyes glued to the TV screen.  Not exactly a great cover, considering there’s a cat litter commercial on, but he pretends to find it fascinating.  “It could be a coincidence.”

“How are you  _ not _ freaked out by this even a little?” Dean says in disbelief.  He snatches up the remote and turns off the TV, forcing Castiel to turn and meet his eye.  In that moment, there’s no way for Castiel to mask his own concern.  Naturally, Dean notices it.  “... Oh fuck, is this what you were having nightmares about?”

“Sometimes.”  

There’s a pause while Dean waits for him to add more, to fill in the blanks on what the  _ other _ nightmares were about.  Castiel doesn’t, so Dean presses on.  “You think maybe you weren’t the only one who came through from your world?”

“I certainly hope I  _ was _ .”  He’s more and more concerned that he wasn’t.  But there’s no reason to burden Dean with paranoid theories born from nothing more than troubled dreams.  

Dean stares into space for a moment, thoughtful.  “Hey Cas?  This might be a weird question, but it’s not in your journal and you’ve never said anything about it so… I was wondering how you ended up here.  Like, did you come through some portal or cast some crazy spell or did some demon or somethin’ send you—”

“Why are we even talking about this?  I appreciate that you’re making an effort to… to engage me on my own level or whatever, but you don’t even  _ believe _ any of this is real.”  

After a moment of guilty silence, Dean shrugs.  “Maybe not, but I’d still like to hear about it.”

Poking at the stitches in the blanket thrown over his legs, Castiel’s voice is barely above a whisper.  “I found Dean’s body outside a warehouse.  It was the singular worst moment of my entire existence, seeing him like that and knowing there was nothing I could do.  I’d given up everything for that man, and he’d had to go and die without giving me the chance to sacrifice myself for him.”

Dean’s breath hitches where he sits, but Castiel plows ahead, unable to stop now that he’s started.

“I held him and wished I could follow him.  When I looked up, the world was devoid of color and the sky was splintering apart.  It shattered and crushed me, and I was so damn  _ glad _ I’d gotten my wish.  Because there was never going to be a life for me after Dean Winchester.”

He gives himself a moment to remember the sense of  _ relief _ he’d felt at the prospect of dying.  Castiel hasn’t really thought too much about that precise moment (for obvious reasons), but he’s no longer so committed to his “go down with this ship” outlook.  There are maybe a few things left to live for.

“So then what?” Dean prompts.  Castiel looks up, confused.  “You said the sky came crashing down on you.  What happened after that?”

“Oh.”  He shrugs.  “I think something hit me.  I blacked out and when I woke up, I was here.”

“So,” Dean says carefully, “does that mean that, as far as you’re concerned, the moment we first met was…?”

“When you came in and thought you’d picked me up at a bar.”

There’s something unhappy in the downturn of Dean’s lips and the frown he’s trying to suppress.  “So like… you don’t remember high school or middle school or any of that.”

Ah yes, the yearbooks of Dean Smith’s shared time with Castiel Novak.  He’s stolen glances at them enough times that he could perhaps fake a few answers, but Cas has never truly pretended to be that man.  He merely never corrected Dean’s false assumption.  

He has no desire to start lying to Dean now, “I’m sorry, but no.  Those were never my memories to hold.”  If Castiel were to try and pinpoint Dean’s reaction to those words, he’d have to pin it down to something akin to  _ anguish _ .  But it’s gone in a flash, so quickly it’d be easy to think he imagined it.  Ignore it and move on.  

After a moment’s consideration, Cas realizes he can’t let it go.  

Does he apologize?  Does he take it back?  What does he do to erase that look from his memory and make sure he never sees it again?

“Are you alright?” he asks tentatively.  “Did I upset you?”

“Nah,” Dean says dismissively.  He’s a surprisingly good liar.  Dean Winchester would’ve been proud.  “I like that the universe or powers that be or whatever decided to put you someplace safe.  And I’m glad the universe thought I was the person to give that to you.”  

And as if he hasn’t said something earth shattering, Dean gets to his feet and musses Cas’ hair.  “I’m hittin’ the hay.  Come to bed when you’re ready.”

Castiel stays where he is for a long time and thinks about where that conversation went wrong.  

When he finally drags himself to bed an hour later, he may be imagining it, but Dean appears impossibly far away.  Like he’s teetering on the very edge of the bed, wanting to put as much distance as possible between himself and Cas.  

It hurts in a way Castiel wouldn’t have expected, but he quietly accepts it as he climbs under his own covers.  Without intending to, he mirrors Dean and falls asleep precariously close to the edge.  It’s the loneliest he’s felt in a while.

\- - - -

“Hey,” Dean starts, looking uneasy.  That in and of itself is enough to hold Castiel’s attention.  Dean Winchester was a frayed bundle of nerves at times.  Dean Smith has been nothing but calm and collected, even in the face of more trying moments like finding Castiel passed out in his living room.  Cas  _ needs _ to know what could possibly shatter this man’s easy confidence.

(His mind darts back to their talk a couple nights ago.  Could this be related?  Does some of the awkwardness linger beneath the veneer of calm?)

“Yes?”

“So uh… There’s this work thing.  A happy hour.  At a bar.”

“As I understand it, that’s usually where they are.”

Dean’s laugh is self-deprecating in all too familiar ways.  It makes Castiel want to grab the shoulders of every incarnation of Dean he ever meets, look them in the eyes, and tell them they’re worth so much more than they think.  

“Anyway… I was kinda wondering if maybe you’d like to uh… like to come along?”

Curiosity alone would be enough incentive.  To see Dean Smith interact with people other than himself.  He longs to know what this man is like around his co-workers and friends.  Is he as open and friendly with everyone, or is that something only Castiel gets to see?  Is he talkative or is he shy?  Does he tell jokes?

Aside from that, now there’s the added bonus of Dean  _ wanting _ him to come along.

“Yes.  When?”

“Uh…”  Dean looks at his watch.  “We should probably leave in like an hour?”

Cas gaps at him.  “Don’t you think you’re bringing this up a little last minute?”

“What, like you got plans?  What’s it tonight, Cutthroat Kitchen or Wipe Out?”  There’s a little more venom behind the words than usual (at least for this Dean), but as defiant and angry as his words are, his body language screams sheepish.  

“Dean,” he says gently, “I would love to come.  I’ll just go shower and get changed.”  Based on how Dean dresses, he has a feeling his preference for sweats would be frowned upon.  He doesn’t want Dean’s career to suffer just because he happens to have a friend who’s a useless bum.

( _ You’re not useless.  You commanded legions of angels once. _

_ And this morning I needed help unclogging a toilet.  Sounds pretty fucking useless to me.) _

The other man perks up and smiles shyly.  “Yeah, sounds good.”

Cas still hasn’t figured out what all the different bottles in the shower are, but he has managed to track down the lilac shampoo.  He doesn’t use it, but occasionally he indulges in breathing the scent in.  It soothes him in ways he doesn’t want to examine too closely.  

When he’s done, he realizes he forgot to bring in a change of clothes.  Normally he doesn’t bother.  He showers when Dean’s at work, so modesty isn’t even a relevant concern.  Now he steps out of the bathroom with a towel slung low around his waist and questions whether this was the best idea.

His plan is to dart into Dean’s bedroom unseen and find something appropriate to wear.  Which is unfortunate, because when he closes the door behind him, he’s startled to find Dean already there, laying out an outfit for him.  Cas stands there like a deer caught in headlights.  He waits too long to make a move, though, because Dean turns to glance at him.

And then does an actual  _ double take _ , openly giving him a hungry once over that has Cas feeling a little faint.

“What?” Dean asks defensively, only the faintest of blushes coloring his cheeks.  “You’re hot.  Cut a guy some slack.”

Cas feels like he’s choking or drowning or surely he’s having at least a mild stroke.  The towels lips down another inch, finally snapping Cas out of his panic attack as he scrambles to pull it back up.  “Wh-what?” he stammers.

Dean rolls his eyes and finishes putting out clothes for Cas.  “What, like you don’t know?”

“No.  Well, I’m not sure.  It’s just… you’ve never…  _ reacted _ before.  Dean didn’t either.  Well, unless he was high.  Then he’d be quite liberal with his attention.  Very vocal too, but—”

“Cas?”  Dean has his usual exasperation when Cas starts talking about  _ then _ and  _ him _ .  “Stop talking.”  Dean’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click.  “Get dressed and get ready to go, okay?  I’ll be in the living room.”

Long after Dean’s left him alone, he stares after him and tries to get over the shock.  A Dean who’s so open about himself and his preferences is not one he ever thought he’d encounter.  Sure, Dean had no problems admitting he’d thought they’d had a one night stand, but it’s hard to avoid your attraction to other men with a man you think you’ve slept with.  But this feels like something entirely different.  Looking Cas over appreciatively while picking out clothes for him…

Not for the first time, he laments the fact that John raised Dean instead of Bobby.  The older man might have been surly, but his heart was always in the right place and he’d always done right by the Winchester brothers.  

Cas finally moves to the bed and takes in the clothes carefully laid out for him.  The black jeans are no surprise—Dean only got him two bottoms that aren’t sweatpants, and the black ones are the nicer pair.  He can’t help but snort a laugh at the dark blue checked button down.  Dean had taken a liking to it and Castiel had laughed and laughed the whole way out of the store.  

The material’s not as durable as the ones Dean favored.  It’s actually deceptively soft and smooth, something almost silky and with a slight sheen to it.  

“Dean would probably hate it,” he says out loud.  

The way Dean Smith licks his lips when Cas emerges makes Cas re-assess.  Maybe even the great Dean Winchester would find something to appreciate in the way the material clings to his biceps.

It’s a relatively short drive, one that’s filled with Castiel looking around Dean’s car in confusion.  Every time they’ve gone out so far, it’s been close enough to walk or the weather’s been so nice Dean’s insisted on enjoying it.  Now Castiel finds himself in the passenger seat of a sky blue Prius.  

Cas had stopped in his tracks when he saw Dean unlock the doors.  He knew there was no Impala here, but he’d expected something… bigger?  Darker?  Some other attribute randomly associated with overcompensating masculinity?  But Dean seems more than comfortable behind the wheel.  

Looking into the backseat, he wonders if there’d be room to—

Oh god  _ stop _ .

“Am I drinking tonight?” he blurts out in an attempt to dispel the mental image.

Dean stops humming along to the very generic sounding pop song on the radio.  “Huh?”

“It’s just I’m not sure where alcohol stands on your list of approved versus unapproved substances.”

“Oh, good point.”  He steals a glance at Castiel, his gaze assessing.  “Maybe one beer?  That’s about as many as I’ll be having.  Don’t wanna overdo it.”

With that in mind, Dean orders a beer for both of them as soon as they arrive.  It tastes divine.  Fresh, not skunked, still carbonated…  Best beer Cas has had since he gained an appreciation for flavors.  He resists the temptation to chug the whole thing at once, knowing he’ll have to make it last the whole evening.  

They mingle for a little bit.  Dean introduces him to the people he’s occasionally talked about.  Each politely shakes Cas’ hand and asks him about himself, while Castiel’s just tries to place names with faces.  When the small talk flounders, Dean will gently place a hand to the small of Cas’ back and guide him to the next group.  

About the second or third time this happens, Cas nearly drops his beer as he’s shuffled over and looking up to see none other than Sam Winchester.  

It takes a few moments for him to recover and correct his earlier assumption.

This young man is most certainly named Sam and wears the same face of the younger Winchester.  The mannerisms and friendly, open smile are the same, but he’s more unburdened than Castiel can recall seeing him.  Like Dean, this version is wiped clean of a terrible destiny.

Even so, Cas can’t help but clam up a little.  The last time he caught a glimpse of this face, it was Lucifer’s presence leaking out of every pore.  He shudders at the memory, averting his eyes from Sam as much as possible.

He knew Dean had a co-worker by that name, but he’d thought it just a coincidence.  Obviously a foolish assumption to make.  The Winchesters apparently came in pairs regardless of the world or their familial relationship.  It disconcerts him immensely.  He polishes off the rest of his beer in an effort to compensate.

When questions are directed his way, Cas barely gets out a one or two word answer.  Eventually the group gives up trying to include him, and Dean rescues him with a pull to his sleeve.  

They end up at a high top table.  Dean sighs while taking Cas’ empty glass and putting it off to the side.  “Dude, what’s your problem with Sam?”

Castiel snorts.  “Where to start?”

“Hey!”  Dean swats him on the arm.  “Seriously, man.  I dunno if he rubs you the wrong way or something, but cut him some slack.  He’s a good guy.  The only one around here besides me who might put up with your  _ I’m an angel _ spiel.  Not like it’d kill you to play nice.”

He can’t help but raise an eyebrow at that but doesn’t question it.  Instead he decides to answer Dean.  “I knew Sam quite well once.  In my world,” he hurries to add once he sees the confusion in the way Dean quirks his lips.  “He… he died.”

Whatever Dean  _ thought _ Cas’ issue with Sam was, clearly that wasn’t it.  The poor man is stunned into silence, mouth opening and closing uselessly.  A pair of co-workers (damned if Castiel can remember their names) appear and drag Dean off for a game of foosball.  Dean waves apologetically but doesn’t exactly seem too put out to escape right now.

It  _ is _ quite the bomb Castiel dropped on him.  He doesn’t begrudge Dean the time to process it.  

Unsurprisingly, he laments having already finished his drink.  Now he has no distraction other than people watching and tracing the rim of his glass over and over.  He’s amusing himself with pushing around a few remaining suds and listening to the table next to him.

“I still can’t believe Adler just  _ disappeared _ .”

“I heard he went to work in Biggerson Corporate.  Their Tokyo office or something.”

“No no, he got this big cushy government job.  Management.  Something with a pension.  Dude was getting old.”

“Well I don’t give a shit  _ where _ the guy fucked off to.  He left a huge mess for us to clean up.  I spent a  _ week _ trying to just sort through the mess in his office.  He was already a huge dick, but ditching us mid project without any warning was the fucking  _ worst _ .”

“Oh come on, Alder wasn’t  _ that _ bad.  Maybe he just got stressed out and left to join a cult or something.”

“You only think he wasn’t that bad because he thought you were pretty.  Dude was a massive asshole.  Even when he was being nice, it was in the slimiest way possible.”

The way they describe this man… That  _ name _ …  Castiel turns around to interrupt.  “Excuse me.  Hi.”  He waves awkwardly as they take him in.  The blonde woman’s eyes go wide and one of the men cocks an eyebrow, but they stop talking to allow him to continue.  “This Adler guy.  He just up and left this fine company without any word…?”

“Pretty much,” the blonde says with a wink.  “Guy disappeared off the face of the Earth.  No notice, no forwarding address, no responses from his email or phone, nothing.”

“I’d actually be worried if he weren’t such a tool,” one of the men jokes.  

“Uh huh.  Huge bag of dicks.”  He has a hunch.  Fuck if he knows what he expects to find, but he pursues it anyway.  “What was Adler’s first name, by the way?”

The three uhm and look at each other for a moment.  “Something weird?  Like an almost normal name but super old fashioned, right?”

“Yeah.  Like if a guy were named Alex but, like, his full name Alexandarius or some shit instead of Alexander.”

“Ezekiel?” Castiel tries.  “Samandriel?  Balthazar?  Bartholomew?”  Still no reaction, so he tries the name he actually suspects.  “Zachariah?”

“ _ That’s _ it!”  The bulkier man snaps his fingers and looks as pleased as if he’d come up with the name on his own.  The three continue their joking and whining, but Castiel pays them no mind.

Immediately Cas is in overdrive.  It can’t just be a coincidence.  2009 Dean thrust into his timeline by Zachariah only days before the world fell to shit?  He tries to pull at a distant memory buried way in the back of his mind-

“Hi!”  The table jostles slightly as two rather large beer glasses are set down.  Castiel turns back around to see Sam’s large hand reaching across the table for his.  “I’m Sam Wesson.  Dean’s friend.”

He sits there, frozen, long enough that Sam’s probably starting to feel offended.  Dean’s warning of  _ play nice _ finally jolts him forward to accept the handshake.  

_ This isn’t Lucifer, _ he reminds himself.   _ Nor is it Sam as he was in his final days.   _

It still gives him the willies.  

“Nice to meet you, Sam.  I’m Castiel.  Dean’s-”

“Boyfriend?  Yeah, I know.  He won’t shut up about you.”  

His hand goes limp just before Sam ends the handshake and he nearly knocks over their beers before he regains control.  “What?” he squeaks.  Given how deep his voice generally dips into lower registers, the word comes out comically high.  “No, we’re not… We’re… we’re  _ roommates _ …”  Cas struggles to find a better description but simply can’t.  

“Uh huh.”  He slides one of the beers closer to Cas and takes a swig of his own.  Castiel wonders if he’ll be in more trouble for not politely accepting Sam’s offer or for breaking the rules and having more than one drink.  But then Sam keeps talking and it’s so  _ weird _ that this is happening.  He drinks it more to have something to do with his hands than anything else.  “You know I’ve been to Dean’s place.  Only got one bed unless I’m remembering it wrong.”

Cas doesn't really have a counter point. There  _ is _ only one bed and he doesn't even sleep on the couch anymore.  “We're just friends.”

“Okay well, he talks about you a lot for a guy he’s ‘just friends’ with.”  Sam’s knowing smile makes him desperately curious what exactly Dean’s said about him.  

Unable to deal with this line of questioning, Castiel tries to divert the conversation to more neutral territory.  “You two talk a lot?”

Sam shrugs as he takes a sip of his beer.  “We go out to drink sometimes if I can talk him into it.  He's usually a Seltzer water kind of guy though.  And sometimes I’ll hide out in his office during lunch if Becky's bugging me.”

“Oh.”

“So listen…  This is going to sound kinda ridiculous but you seem like a good guy so I figure you’ll humor me.”  Castiel gestures to go on, too light headed from the word  _ boyfriend _ to be able to interact like a fully functional human being.  

“You probably already know that Dean’s great,” Sam continues, oblivious to Cas’ distress.  “I don’t know how much you two have talked about this sort of stuff, but he hasn’t exactly had a great track record.  Things with Cassie and Lisa didn’t end well, and other than them, I don’t know if he’s ever dated someone who wasn’t after him for his looks or his money or whatever.

“Dean deserves a stable relationship with someone who cares about him for  _ him _ and not for all the other superficial bullshit people care about.  And I’m really hoping that’s you.”

Huh.  He never thought he’d get to hear the don’t-hurt-my-brother-talk from Sam.  Life was weird like that.

Quietly Cas finishes a good deal of remaining beer.  The slight buzz helps calm the whirlwind of emotions raging inside him.  “So… I break his heart and you break me, or something to that effect?”

Sam laughs good naturedly.  “Hey, all I’m saying is I’d hate to see someone he obviously cares about hurt him.  I don’t think you’d do that, but it can’t hurt to put it out there.”

“So that’s a yes.”

The taller man shrugs, a huge grin on his face.  “It’s not a no.”

This whole thing is so surreal.  As far as Castiel was concerned, up until an hour ago Sam was  _ dead _ in all ways that mattered.  And yet here he is, talking to him over drinks and happy as can be.  With the alcohol running through his veins and the absurdity of this whole situation, Cas almost feels like he’s high.  

As politely as he can, he excuses himself and heads off to the restrooms.  He needs a moment to collect himself.  

He must not leave Sam as politely as he thought because within seconds Dean’s cornering him in the long, narrow hallway leading away from the bar area.  “Hey, you okay?  What happened?  Did you or Sam-?”

“It’s fine.”  Cas takes in Dean’s uptight body language - something he’s never seen from him before.  “What’s wrong?  I understand Sam’s your friend, but why is it so important to you that we get along?”

“Okay, uh...”  He looks around nervously, but they are utterly alone.  “So you know how I’m kinda okay with the whole you thinking you’re from another dimension or whatever?”

“Yes?” he raises his eyebrows skeptically.  

“Well I maybe had this thing happen a few months ago.”  Castiel tries to radiate calm because Dean’s practically bouncing out of his skin with nervous energy.  “There were some weird deaths at the office, and Sam and I found out it was this uh… this  _ ghost _ haunting the place.  And we kinda killed it.  If killing a ghost is even something you can do.  And…  _ Fuck _ ,” he hisses, clenching his hands into fists and looking utterly miserable.  “I know it sounds ridiculous and… and  _ weird _ , and that no one in their right mind would believe me.  Hell, I’m not sure you’re in  _ your _ right mind and I’m pretty sure  _ you _ won’t believe me and I probably shouldn’t’ve said anything-”

“Dean?”  He waits until the other man stops talking.  At least Dean looks relieved that Cas has put a stop to his babbling, but now there’s nothing but misery in his eyes as he waits for Castiel to condemn him for being crazy.  

It’s like Dean doesn’t know him at all.

He puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze.  “As it so happens, I do believe you.”

Dean looks at Cas’ hand for a long time before he blinks and looks up to meet his eyes.  “You do?”  And then, more confidently, “Why am I not even  _ surprised. _  Of  _ course _ you do.”  And then he’s back to his usual self.

“Honestly, I hope there's never a day I stop surprising you.”  Holy fuck, what is he  _ doing _ ?  First the random contact and now this mushy garbage.  Before it can turn into “a moment,” he adds,  “If I ever get boring, you'll just kick me out on the street and then what’ll I do?”

A pause and then Dean’s laughing a huge, full belly laugh.  He has to lean against the wall for support, then he’s throwing an arm around Castiel’s shoulders to pull him into a side hug.  “Oh man, I haven’t laughed like that in forever.  But seriously, I hope you’re not worried about that.  I’m not going to kick you out or anything.  I think we’ve moved past the awkward-strangers-that-sorta-live-together phase of our relationship.  We’re like legit roommates now.”

Relationship.  Roommates.  The words seem at odds with each other.  And considering the casual way he’s slung himself around Castiel, there’s some truth to Sam’s interpretation of their relationship.  

And it’s not like Cas is shrugging off Dean’s arm.  He’s actively encouraging that interpretation right now.  He shouldn’t.  He should make it explicitly clear to Dean and all his co-workers that they’re simply roommates.

Who share a bed.  And spend all their time together.  And are at least a little attracted to each other.

Fucking fuck is this complicated.

A couple of young women start walking down the hallway.  Dean and Cas slowly move apart, finally breaking contact, and take it as their cue to head back to the crowd.  “Hey,” Cas says before they throw themselves back to the wolves.  “Can you remind me to ask more about that ghost thing when I’m not drunk?”

“You’re drunk-?!”

Castiel smiles apologetically.  “You said play nice with Sam.  He bought me a beer.  It’d be rude to turn him down.”

“Ugh,  _ fine _ .  But no more-”

They’re interrupted by Sam and a few of the people Castiel met earlier pulling them into some random conversation.  Cas lets his mind wander, not settling on any specific thought for a while.  He still doesn’t quite have his bearings just yet, and he doesn’t want to say anything that might embarrass Dean.

“What about you, Castiel?”

He turns to see one of Dean’s co-workers (Becky, if he remembers her name correctly) looking at him expectantly.  Sam looks like he’s trying to hide a laugh and Dean looks rather pale, but admittedly Cas has no idea what they’re talking about.  “Sorry, I zoned out for a minute there.  What are we talking about?”

“I was trying to see if you’d be interested in joining an orgy.  I’m trying to hook up Sam with this cute receptionist on the fifth floor, but his tastes seem a little too  _ vanilla _ for her.”

“Oh.  Uh, no thank you.  My orgy days are behind me.”

The group laughs at what they assume to be a joke while Dean chokes on his drink.  Then it goes back to teasing Sam about the receptionist named Ruby he appears to have a mild crush on.  

\----

“They were joking, you know,” Dean says on the drive back to his apartment.  “About the orgy.”

“Mmhmm.”  He’s leaning against the window, trying to stay awake.  

“You weren’t… you weren’t serious about having been in orgies, were you?”

“Of course I have.  What do you think there is to do during an apocalypse other than fight, die, get high, and fuck?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dean mutters to himself, knuckles white on the steering wheel.  “So you’ve had sex with like… all the people you mention in your journal?”

“No.”  He yawns.  “Don’t be ridiculous.  I wasn’t there in a participatory role.  It’s more like I lead a group relaxation exercise where the primary activity was having sex with all the other people there.”

Dean pulls into his parking spot and shuts off the car.  He groans and leans his head against the steering wheel as he takes a few calming breaths.  “I don’t even know what that means, never mind how to start reacting to it.”  

The trip back up to the apartment is ridiculously arduous.  Castiel used be able to handle more than two beers, and yet now he finds himself sluggish and unreasonably tired.  It’s almost as bad as the first time Dean got him drunk, though thankfully he’s in little danger of a hangover this time.  God that had been embarrassing, puking his newly human guts out in front of the hunter.  

It’s a struggle to get his shoes off, but once free he throws them lazily towards the door.  All he wants to do is grab a drink of water and fall asleep while there’s still a chance he won’t stay up hours over-analyzing the evening.  

“So…”  Dean’s failed attempt at nonchalance makes Cas sigh internally, but he waits patiently for the man to go on.  “You’re telling me you had a chance to participate in orgies and you didn’t?”

“Are we still talking about this?”  He was under the impression they weren’t talking about  _ anything _ , but it’s possible he spaced out and simply forgot.

“Apparently.  Why go to an orgy if you’re not going to… orgy?”

“I don’t think orgy’s a verb-”

_ “Cas _ .”

He rolls his eyes.  “I  _ did _ participate.  I watched and encouraged the others to find comfort through physical expression.  It was one of the few ways I could still bring happiness, however fleeting, to the people around me, so I indulged and encouraged them to.”

“Okay but… did you like, have sex with any of them?  Cuz I don’t think it counts unless you’re having sex with them.”

“You are oddly fixated on this.”  Dean’s expression made it clear he wasn’t going to let it go.  Best to get it over with.  “I… Well, yes.  A few times.  I… was able to convince Dean to join us.  Only if he was high though.  He had very firm moral lines about orgies.  Strange given that all his other morals went out the window after… well,  _ after _ .  But he was much more relaxed when he was high-”

“Wait,  _ what _ ?  Are you saying you fucked m- fucked Dean during an orgy?”

Castiel’s suddenly very very tired.  He rubs a hand over his face.  “Once we made out and another time there may have been a blowjob involved.  But afterwards he got weird and avoided me for a bit.  I couldn’t get him to attend any of the other orgies after that.  Any other time we were intimate was alone and behind closed doors.  Happy?”

Airing his sordid laundry for a third party doesn’t normally bother him.  Despite Dean’s attempts at discretion, the entire camp knew about their arrangement.  Yet it’s extremely strange to talk about you and your partner’s sex life with an exact replica of said partner.

“Huh.  Gay panic or something?”

His hackles rise as he rushes to defend Dean.  “He had a lot to handle,” he bites out.

Cas’ display of loyalty doesn’t impress Dean.  “Dude sounds like an idiot.  A chance to mess around with you at orgies?  I would’ve been hella on board for that.  Well, if I were maybe ten years younger and still smoked recreationally.”

This is more declarative of Dean Smith’s feelings than anything else, and it makes Cas shut down.  Subtle hints and longing stares and the occasional flirty comment are much more in Cas’ wheelhouse.  Dealing with an outright confession is too much.

“I’m going to bed,” he says icily, retreating to the bedroom.  There’s a second when he contemplates sleeping on the couch - sharing a bed right now seems unfathomable given what’s just been said.  Hell, there’s even the slightest bit of rejection in the way Cas walked away from the conversation.  

But he’s pretty sure any dreams he has tonight will be about Lucifer crammed into Sam’s body, using the poor younger Winchester like a puppet to do terrible, awful things.  He doesn’t want to dream about his lost friend being made a monster.  

Like a coward, he strips down to his boxers and crawls into bed.  He’s half asleep when Dean finally joins him.  The bed dips down under his weight.  

“Hey Cas?” Dean whispers.  In the quiet room it sounds like shouting.  “You really never been with anyone but Winchester?”

“I’ve never wanted anything with anyone other than Dean.”

“Oh.”  Dean’s voice is guarded as he quietly asks, “Never?”

“No,” he says firmly.

_ Maybe _ , he thinks to himself before drifting off.   _ But just once. _


	11. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

They wake up cuddled together.  Actually, legitimately tangled in each other’s legs, arms wrapped tight around one another, breath tickling each other’s necks.  The alcohol the night before must have made their willpower crumble.  At least that’s Castiel’s excuse when he opens his eyes to find beautiful green ones watching him.

He’s asleep enough that he can admit it.  Just for right now, in this exact moment, he can allow himself to want this.

Before he can change his mind or consider the ramifications of what he’s about to do, Castiel surges forward.  Dean makes a startled noise but goes into the kiss willingly.  

The kiss… wow.  It’s maddening. It’s so passionate and desperate on both their ends, but not in any of the ways he’s come to expect from kissing Dean.  It’s not frustrated or angry or rushed, like it was life or death that they got off right  _ now _ .  A means to an end and nothing more.  This feels more like  _ finally _ indulging.  Like the way Dean Smith moans around a slice of pie when he allows himself to enjoy one.

There’s no way Castiel can possibly mistake this Dean for  _ his _ Dean.  Even if he tries.

He doesn’t try.

Drunk on the taste of Dean, he invades Dean’s space even more, rolling on top of him and lining them up.  It’s so damn  _ good _ as they slide against each other, purposeful and sensuous as build up to more than a slow grind.  Castiel bites down on Dean’s lower lip and the man bucks up into him, and then all hell breaks loose.  They rut against each other, gasping for air and kissing the whole time and it’s so fucking  _ good _ .

He’s going to regret this later.  He’s just lucid enough to know that.  But lost in the moment, in eyes too green for their own good, he doesn’t care.  There’s so much of him that wants, begs,  _ screams _ for this.  To continue until he’s feeling Dean inside of him again, filling him and—

“Cas…” Dean gasp out, turning away to dodge another kiss.  “Stop.”

Growling in frustration, he does.  First his mouth and then his hips, he rests his forehead against Dean’s shoulder and feels shame wash over him.  “Why?” he whispers to the bare skin there.

“Believe you me, I would  _ love _ to.”  He rolls his hips up one more time to emphasize the point.  Cas shivers and bites back a moan.  “But just last night you told me you’ve never wanted  _ anyone _ besides Winchester, and we both know I’m not him.”  Quietly, so soft that Cas barely hears it over how his heart’s hammering in his chest, Dean adds, “I don’t really wanna be with someone who’s in love with somebody else.  I don’t think I should have to be second place to somebody else.”

As if the bitter sting of rejection weren’t bad enough, now he feels like a complete jackass for using Dean.  “You’re right.”  He slides off of Dean and turns his back to him.  Staring at the dresser, he drones out, “Of course you’re right.  You deserve more than that.”

So much more than that.

But  _ his _ Dean deserved more than he got too.  Maybe it’s just the fate of all Dean’s to be stuck with Castiel.

“Yeah.”  Dean sounds bitter, but without looking he can’t be sure.  When Cas considers what Sam told him about Dean’s past relationships, it’s easy to see why might be resentful.  But no matter what else might happen between them, Cas resolves right then and there not to be another one of Dean’s failed romances.  

“For the record,” the other man interrupts Cas’ thoughts.  “If you ever… If maybe...

_ If you ever get over Dean Winchester.  If you can ever see me as anything other than a replacement for him. _

_ If you could ever love me. _

It remains unsaid, but Castiel hears it as loudly as if Dean had screamed it.

He scrunches his eyes shut and prays he’ll be able to fall back asleep.  “Okay.”  His voice is so shaky it’s a miracle any sound comes out at all.

The silence stretches out until Dean asks, “You really loved the guy, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”  The word feels like it’s been ripped out of him.  He coughs to clear his throat and continues.  “I would’ve died for him.  Tried to, actually.  Didn’t stick.”

“He didn’t…  _ ask _ you to die for him, did he?”

Cas doesn’t answer, which is in itself answer enough.

“I’m gonna go for a run before work.”  

Even though Dean’s the one who flees, Castiel feels like he’s the coward here.

It seems so unfair.  His Dean is dead, and if the inescapable dread in his gut means anything, this Dean’s Castiel is likely dead as well.  He has no illusions about why Dean let him stay here in the first place.  As wonderful as Dean Smith is (Castiel can no longer deny that, even in his own head, and what’s more unsettling, he doesn’t wish to), Castiel doubts his heart is so generous as to take in a complete stranger from a random hookup.  Especially when said stranger has a drug problem and all the evidence of a troubled past.

Yet here Cas is anyway.  Dean let him in, helped him, and asked nothing in return but that he clean himself up.  Castiel’s positive that the only reason Dean did it— _ any _ of it—is because Cas has the same face as someone Dean used to know.  Someone he no doubt would’ve fallen head over heels in love with, if only the two of them had been given the chance.

Which they hadn’t.  Cas swooped in and landed here, taking up all of Dean Smith’s affection that should’ve rightfully gone to that other man.

And now that it’s too late, now that he’s already done the damage of stealing this Dean’s heart, Castiel finds himself in the uncomfortable position of needing to evaluate his own feelings on the subject.  If someone had asked him when this all started (or even a few weeks ago, for that matter), the answer would be clear.  He’s in love with Dean Winchester, a dead man in a lost world and forever out of Castiel’s reach.  Dean Smith is great but a decidedly different person whom Castiel likes well enough but will never care for more than that.

But… what would be his answer if someone were to pose the very same question  _ today _ ?

He’s admittedly quite fond of Dean Smith.  All the same general emotions are there.  A swell of pride in the man—perhaps not for his accomplishments, of which Cas understands very little, but for the type of man he’s become.  A desire to spend time with him: cooking together; eating together; watching TV or playing card games together;  _ sleeping _ together.  A need to protect him, and not just from Croats and Lucifer and the end of the world, but from more mundane things like a bad day.  

Or falling in love with the wrong man.

Dean brings up a very valid point.  He shouldn’t have to be second to anyone.  If anyone were to get the pleasure of dating Dean, it should be someone who can put him first.  Love him in all the ways Castiel’s broken heart isn’t capable of.  

There’s also Dean’s concern that perhaps he’s just using Dean Smith as a replacement for his own Dean.  It’s not unfounded.  Castiel  _ has _ confused the one for the other, but generally only when sleep-deprived.  And he  _ has  _ let himself fall into the fantasy that it’s Dean Winchester’s eyes he’s looking into, that it’s his smile lighting up his day, that it’s his laugh making his heart beat restlessly in his chest.

If Castiel’s honest with himself, there’s probably more than just his resemblance to the other Dean that’s building underneath everything else.  But it’s so wrapped up in his longing for  _ anything _ Dean that right now he’s not sure he could separate the two.  So to answer the question  _ Is Dean Smith just a convenient substitute for Dean Winchester _ ? the answer is… he has no idea.

Until he  _ does _ know the answer, it would be wrong to pursue anything more than the friendship he and Dean currently share.  

Decision made, Castiel ignores how it kills him a little inside.

\- - - -

Dean comes back from his run with a strange look on his face, but it disappears the moment he catches sight of Castiel.  Normally he smiles when he gets home, his whole countenance lightening up in happiness at the prospect of spending time together.  Now his expression is pinched and he doesn’t quite meet Castiel’s eyes.  

The words  _ are you okay? _ are on the tip of his tongue, but Castiel swallows them. He has no right to ask that.  Not right now.  So he ignores it and continues making breakfast for the two of them.  Then he retreats onto the balcony to let Dean eat and get ready in peace.  

Only after he’s spent hours trying  _ not _ to think about Dean (and of course doing nothing but) does he consider that giving him the cold shoulder will only make the situation between them more strained.  Giving Dean Winchester space was pretty much essential to surviving his increasing number of foul moods.  The only way Castiel was ever able to navigate their relationship was by reading when he was pissy and giving him a wide berth until, inevitably, Dean sought relief in the former angel’s bed.  

If he were the type to gamble, he’d be willing to place money on Dean Smith being the complete opposite.  Silent brooding doesn’t seem to be his thing.  He doesn’t close himself off or hide what he’s feeling.  Dean likes being around people, finds their mere presence soothing.  And Castiel denied him that.  Purposefully.  

For the rest of the day, Cas berates himself for it and prepares to do better.  They don’t have to talk about  _ the incident _ , but they can still talk.  He can ask about Dean’s day at work, if his co-workers enjoyed their time at the bar, if he wants to try that new boardgame Sam suggested.  He can—no, he  _ will _ be a better friend to Dean.

Especially since that’s all he intends to be.

That evening, Cas is in the kitchen rolling out dough for biscuits when Dean nearly breaks down the door to get into the apartment.  Cas watches in alarm as Dean locks not only the door but draws the deadbolt, then in a flurry of activity tears off his jacket and tie.  Then he starts manically pacing back and forth across the apartment, running his hands through his hair and over his eyes.  

Cas has a bad feeling about this.

He fully expects to have a more thorough talk about what happened that morning and their feelings.  His stomach twists uncomfortably and he thinks maybe he understands why his Dean hated this sort of thing.  But he owes Dean this talk.

“Dean, are you okay?”

The man stops in his tracks and stares at him as though only now realizing Castiel’s there at all.  “Cas,” he breathes out the name like a caress, and it nearly guts Castiel with how tender it is.  The pure  _ relief _ in that lone syllable.  Then it shifts, turns into something almost accusatory.  “You knew I’m allergic to cats.  You know I like pie.  You know I like to keep cash hidden in my shoes.”

“Yes…?”

“You didn’t know them because you knew  _ me _ .  Those are things about that other Dean, aren’t they?”

Cas shrugs.  “Yes, I suppose?  But apparently they’re also about you, too.  Why—”  

“I believe you.”

“Believe me?”

“About… about…”  Then Dean rushes to the coffee table and grabs the journal, holding it up and shaking it dramatically.  “About  _ all _ of it.  I believe you.”

Frowning in concern, he asks, “Not that I don’t appreciate the sudden vote of confidence, but what’s all this about?  What happened?”

“You’re gonna think I’m crazy, man.   _ I _ think I’m crazy.  Like, I killed a ghost a few months ago and yet  _ this _ is so fucking out there that…  No  _ way _ .”

“Dean,” he says gently, pulling out a stool and patting it.  Dean obediently walks over and falls into the seat, resting his elbows on the counter and burying his face in his hands.  Mindful of his earlier resolve to both be there for Dean but not to give the wrong impression, Cas lets a hand fall on Dean’s bicep and squeeze.  “What’s wrong?  What happened?”

He peeks out through his fingers and searches for something in Castiel’s face.  Eventually he must find it, because he sighs and lets his arms fall to his lap.  “Something weird’s going on, and it’s kinda freaking me out.”

Grabbing the extra stool, Cas sits across from him and waits for him to continue.

“So like… It was a lot of things.  Little things.  And by themselves, each thing was nothing, but then they started adding up and it was kinda weird.  But now it’s a  _ big _ thing on top of all the little things and there’s no way I can ignore it or explain it away like I’m imagining things.”  Dean looks at Cas helplessly.  “I don’t even know where to start.”

“At the beginning’s usually a good place,” he jokes with a wry smile.  “Tell me about the little things first.”

“Okay.  Stuff kept going missing.  And whatever, y’know?  People lose mugs and files and stuff all the time.  Hell, it’s an office—people actively take and horde that shit.  But it got weirder.  Like…”  

He struggles for a moment to find an example, then snaps his fingers and presses his index finger firmly on the counter between them.  “Like the Mufflin account.  I worked my  _ ass _ off to get the account.  Had this guy over there that I worked extensively.  We’re talking hours and hours of phone conferences, loads of emails, the works.  And then I go to close the account, and it’s like the guy doesn’t even  _ exist _ anymore.  Nobody at Mufflin’s heard of the guy, all the emails are gone, and nobody at my office seems to even remember that I was trying to  _ get _ an account with this company.

“And there was the time a whole filing cabinet in my office disappeared—that was fucking weird.  Never found out about what happened to it.  At first I thought some custodian or something had moved it or maybe it was a prank, but nobody fessed up and it never turned up.  Had to work all weekend to try and recover as much of the info as I could.  And it was even weirder because  _ no one gave a shit _ .  About any of it.  Like it was normal or they didn’t notice anything different at all.  

“My secretary legitimately came into my office and told me I’d  _ never _ had a filing cabinet in the corner.  Like, sure, I just have this empty fucking space the perfect size for a filing cabinet and there’s never been one there.  Of course.”

Now that Dean’s started talking, it flows easily.  Castiel reserves judgement, only prompting him to continue.  “And the big stuff?”

“The big stuff?  Uh, my boss is one.  Another guy who just basically disappeared off the face of the planet a few months ago.  At the time, I didn’t give a shit.  He was kind of a slimy asshole, so fuck him, right?  Company was better off without him.  At least people  _ noticed _ when he left, so it wasn’t as weird as the Mufflin guy.  

“But it’s not just them.  I checked the company records from payroll.  Got an old binder of names and addresses printed out from last year.  Went through about a hundred or so names.  Five of them no longer seem to even  _ exist _ .  Nothing in our computerized database about them.  Which, you know,  _ fine _ , maybe they moved or got other jobs or something.  Except the system is telling me they  _ never _ worked for Sandover.  And a Google search turned up nothing.  I asked around the office, no one had heard of  _ any _ of them.”

If this were five years ago and a different Dean, Castiel would require no further information to know there was a case here.  Damned if he knew what type of case, but definitely a case.  

Yet it’s Dean Smith not Winchester sitting before him, having found it all on his own and investigated enough to confirm that there’s certainly something supernatural at work here.

“Why now?” Castiel asks.  “Why are you suddenly so curious about the disappearances when before you were willing to brush them off?”

“Because I’ve saved the weirdest fucking part for last, that’s why.  You know how I went for a run today?”  Cas nods.  “Well, I figured since I was out, I’d get myself a coffee from this shop a few blocks down.  Just a little pick me up, especially since there’s no coffee here.”  Castiel flinches at the reminder, but Dean clearly didn’t mean to imply anything since he barrels right along.  “And I turn onto the street, head right up to where the shop is.  Except it isn’t there at all.”

He pauses for dramatic effect, waiting for Cas’ reaction.  There isn’t much of one, since Castiel’s not sure exactly what Dean’s saying.  Sure, he has an  _ idea _ , but it does in fact seem ridiculous.  “What are you saying?  It closed down?”

“No!  I’m saying the building doesn’t friggin  _ exist _ anymore.  There’s just an empty lot there, with grass and weeds and shit.  Not a sign there’s been a building there  _ ever _ .  I double and triple and quadruple checked that I was even in the right spot, but I definitely was.  I asked people on the street, asked the neighboring business.  No one’s heard of the fucking place.  They all tried to tell me it’s just an empty lot.  Always has been.  

“No sign of it in the phone books or online either.  I even tried to look up the girl who usually works there and  _ nothing _ .  Like she vamoosed right along with the shop.  I was freaking the fuck out all day, which is why I started looking into the other stuff.

“So… whaddaya think?”

“Yeah, okay, that’s weird.”

Dean stares at him expectantly, but when Castiel doesn’t say anything else he looks positively scandalized.  “That’s it?  That’s weird?  Aren’t you Mr. Former-angel-of-the-lord-from-a-parallel-reality, and all you got for me is ‘that’s weird’?”  By the end, Dean’s almost in hysterics.  

“Well… it  _ is _ weird, isn’t it?”  Dean glares at him.  “What do  _ you _ think’s going on?”

“I don’t know!”  His arms go up in exasperation.  “I’m worried maybe things from your world are falling into my world, or things from my world are disappearing into yours.”

He gets up and continues rolling out the biscuits to make dinner.  “Tell me about the ghost you killed.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Which one of us is the expert here?” he scolds.  Dean’s mouth snaps shut but he looks peeved nonetheless.  “Just tell me about it.  I wasn’t under the impression that this place  _ had  _ ghosts or anything of the sort, so I’d like to get a better idea of the  _ possibilities _ before I make blanket statements about what is or isn’t going on.”

Honestly, he’s proud that his voice is steady and his hands don’t tremble.  Because he has a sick feeling he knows what’s happening.  

Dean’s too preoccupied with his own breakdown to notice Castiel’s.  “Well, Sam and I found this ghost that was killing people at Sandover and took it out.  With like… iron and salt and stuff.  It was kinda fun in the most terrifying way possible.  Sam wanted to quit our jobs and go around doing this whole ghost hunting thing as a job or something,” Dean chuckles at that.  “Not gonna lie, I thought about it.  But it doesn’t seem practical or rewarding at all, plus it’s crazy dangerous and I  _ like _ my job.  Promised him maybe we do a road trip sometime to try it though, just for kicks.”

He nods along, keeping most of us focus on cutting out the biscuits and laying them on the baking pan.  It’s the only way he can keep Dean from noticing the worry in his eyes.  “There are a number of things that might be capable of  _ some _ of what you’ve described, but it’ll take me a while to think of a creature that might’ve been able to accomplish  _ all _ of it.”

“Oh.  Good, I guess.”  Dean breathes out a huge sigh of relief.  “So you don’t think that… that our worlds are merging together?  Nothing like that?”

“Of course not.”  His smile is halfway genuine.  He’s always hated lying to Dean.  

Dean returns it, still shaken but well on his way to feeling better.  “Great.  What’s for dinner?”

There’s an undercurrent of unease throughout the evening, but Dean does seem to be genuinely relieved.  He occasionally prods Cas to find out what he’s going to do, and eventually Cas gives in to his nagging and asks for some sort of computer or something.  Dean eagerly grabs him a tablet, some old thing that apparently has been used for little more than an e-reader and paperweight, and hands it over.  

“You’re hovering,” Castiel grunts as he tries to navigate to a decent web search.  

“Sorry.”  Dean backs up and starts fiddling with the remote.  But as Cas searches for strange disappearances—which he has no  _ clue _ how to do, all of his time as a hunter has been  _ without _ the aid of technology more advanced than dusty atlases—Dean keeps drifting closer and closer.  “I could help—”

Cas cuts him off with a sharp look.  

“It’s just… You look like you can’t even type, the way you’re poking around—”

“ _ Dean _ .”  

It’s endearing how much he looks like a reprimanded child, and for a moment, Castiel’s heart doesn’t feel as heavy.  But then he goes back to the tablet and his hopes plummet.  

Most of what he can find are the increased number of homicides that concerned him earlier.  Apparently normal people snapping and killing their loved ones before disappearing.  At first there was no pattern, always a completely random occurrence, but now there appear to be multiple instances rising up around some of the earlier reports.  Some of them cluster around areas with compromised water supply facilities.  It  _ screams _ of Croatoan.  

But those are Castiel’s concerns.  He’s not sure how to address Dean’s.  

There’s no reasonable way for him to search for the type of disappearances Dean has in mind.  Things aren’t just going missing, it’s more like they’re being erased from existence so thoroughly that it’s as though they’d never existed in the first place.  Dean himself is the only one to have noticed such things, the only one whose memory is unaffected by the erasure.  That fact is troubling in and of itself.

“I’m gonna go to sleep.  You’ll tell me what you figure out, won’t you?”

He grunts his assent, giving off the appearance of someone too busy to look up.  In reality, he’s waiting for Dean’s bedroom door to click shut, and then he’s typing  _ Castiel Novak _ in the searchbar.  Up pops an article on the man’s mysterious murder, which the paper speculates was a robbery gone wrong.  

Idiots.

The date lines up to Castiel’s last nightmare, and it’s like the final nail’s been put in the coffin.  Lucifer is surely here.  Either he followed Castiel or fell through the same cracks between worlds that he did.  

And that’s not even the worst of it.

Zachariah.  The man who sent Dean from the past to “learn a lesson” had done something like that before.  Castiel was already starting to fall out of Heaven’s good graces, so he’d only been peripherally aware of what happened at the time.  But he knew Zachariah had created some false world where Dean had a normal life, all in an effort to convince him that his life, painful and flawed as it may be, is the only life he’d ever want.  

This world that isn’t even truly a world.  Likely it’s just a fabrication.  As was his own.  The weight of that discovery is both crushing and freeing.  Because on the one hand, everything he’s known for the past few years has been a lie.  A deception meant to trick Dean Winchester into becoming a willing vessel for Michael.  Castiel and his Dean are poor duplicates of the real thing, playing out a scenario that needn’t have ever come to be.

On the other hand, it means he didn’t fail Dean.  Dean was always meant to walk into that yard and die at Lucifer’s hand.  And the real Dean—the one from 2009, the man around whom both Castiel’s world and this world are based upon—escaped alive.  

The Dean he fell in love with in Hell _ might still be alive _ .  

He takes comfort in that.  A morbid, empty kind of comfort.  Because while the original Dean Winchester might still be out there somewhere, trying to prevent the apocalypse, that does him no good.  His world crumbled, and it would appear this one is too.  

These two worlds that Zachariah made would’ve played out indefinitely, he suspects.  Or should have.  The only thing that could cause them to literally fall apart like they are now is if something happened to Zachariah.  If he died.

( _ I hope Dean’s the one who killed you, you son of a bitch.) _

But if the angel who created this world is dead, there’s nothing that can hold them together.  They’ll fall apart gradually or shatter immediately, depending on how old these little pocket realities are and how thought out they were when created.  But in the end, they all cease to be.

And there’s absolutely nothing Castiel or anyone else can do to stop it.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Chapter Eleven**

They rut against him, one Dean draped over his back and another Dean beneath him.  They kiss and nibble and there are hands everywhere.  Gentle caresses and a slap on his thigh.  Fingers greedily poking at his rim while one Dean drags his cock along the line of Cas’ crack and the other drags his along Cas’.  It’s perfect.

He moans in delight, letting the two men do whatever they want with him.  There's nothing they could do right now that he wouldn't enjoy.

“Fuck you’re beautiful when you’re like this,” the Dean above him grunts into his ear.  He roughly pulls Cas’ hair to expose his throat, then starts mouthing along his pulse point.  “Love it when you’re all needy and hard for me.”

Dean Winchester then.

“Tell us what you want, baby,” the one under him begs.  “Let us take care of you.”

He’d thought about doing this with that past Dean that visited towards the end, but he never pushed for it.  Mostly because it seemed unlikely to go over well.   _ That _ Dean was too young, too… closed off to the idea of allowing himself to actually be with men.  To allow himself to *enjoy* it and that it was okay for him to do so.  

Not that  _ his _ Dean was any better.  The front he put up for everyone’s benefit (when really it was just for his own) didn’t allow for him to be the type of man who liked other men.  That wasn’t a thing he’d let himself have or want anywhere but behind closed doors and not with anyone beyond Cas.  Even a younger version of himself as witness to that would no doubt have made profoundly uncomfortable.

But this is a dream, and he’s allowed to have this if he wants it.  The dream Deans don’t object.  In reality, he suspects these two Deans would've hated each other.  One too coarse and bitter, the other too soft and accepting.  One man would be mad at the other for trying to steal Cas, the other would be so pissed that the first ever had Cas to begin with.  

Thank god for dreams, then.

Because now they work in perfect harmony to drive Castiel crazy with their mouths, their hands, their dicks.  They're both here and both on board.  And whatever he may or may not feel for Dean Smith, it’s certainly not a betrayal if he includes his Dean too, right?  They’re both here, both enjoying Cas and each other and why shouldn’t he let himself have this one happy moment?

“I want— _ need _ both of you.  Inside of me.  Please…”

The best part about dream sex is that lube isn’t required.

Dean Winchester expertly stretches him out and then guides the head of Dean Smith’s cock in.  Dean Smith throws his head back in ecstasy, looking so beautiful Castiel can’t stand it.  He could have this in the waking world,  _ he could have this, _ and yet he chooses not to.  

_ Why does he choose not to _ ?

“‘s okay,” Dean Smith soothes, sensing his tension.  “You can have me here.”

“You can have both of us,” Dean Winchester whispers in his ear as he pushes in along side his doppelganger.  “Mmm so tight.  Always loved how tight you were.”

There’s no need to wait to adjust and no dealing with awkward rhythms.  It’s a dream, so the Deans get right to it, pounding in tandem and making Cas cry out in delight.  He should feel more pain than he does, but his brain’s kind enough to send along the right mix of pleasure/burn.  

“We love you, sweetheart.”

“Love you so much.”

Castiel groans in delight, barely daring to believe the words he’s hearing.  This is too much but not enough.  His Dean knows him so well, knows just how to push his buttons and get him so hard he’s restless begging for even more.  Dean Winchester skillfully works him over, whereas Dean Smith is so eager to learn.  He watches Cas carefully as he tries to memorize his reactions to everything.  A brush over his nipple, a hand to his cock teasing the head, teeth tracing along his earlobe.  

“You deserve this.  Let us take care of you.  Let us make you feel good.”

“Gonna make you come so hard.”

Castiel gasps out, so close to coming, any moment now—

“Well isn’t this touching.”

Both Deans keep going, oblivious to their audience, until Castiel physically restrains them.  An arm around each, he grips them tight and holds them protectively.  Though what protection he can offer from the devil himself, Castiel doesn’t know.  

His brother stands in the corner of the room—Dean Smith’s room, Castiel now recognizes—with his hands in his pockets and a charcoal suit and blue bowtie.  Castiel doesn’t recognize the face he wears.  It’s not Sam or Nick or even the female vessel he used to kill Jimmy.  The man before him is college-aged with red hair, so many freckles dotting his face that by comparison Dean could barely be called freckled at all.  

If Castiel had come across this young man on the street, he would’ve seen the laugh lines thought him friendly if not a little meek.  Yet there’s no doubting that Lucifer’s the one staring back at him, his visage nothing but menace and barely contained disdain.  

“I know,” Lucifer says with a smirk, gesturing to himself.  “So unassuming.  Not my favorite, but when one’s true vessel is out of reach, we find ourselves making do with lesser forms.”  Then he points to the bed, to the two Deans still trying to pepper him with kisses.  “This is what you dream of, little brother?”  A sneer as he steps forward.  “No wonder you fell.  I wouldn’t have thought you one to succumb to carnal pleasures.”

“What are you doing here?”  It’s an effort to keep his voice even, to mask his fear.  One of the Deans thrusts into him and it’s too much.  Castiel forcibly dispels them from the dream.  It leaves him cold and exposed to his brother’s full gaze, but he will  _ not _ allow Lucifer the pleasure of killing another Dean, dream or not.

A flash of disappointment flickers behind Lucifer’s eyes before he’s the picture of bored indifference.  He takes a few steps to the edge of the bed, watching Castiel carefully.  Cas tries not to flinch and resists the urge to pull the sheets around himself.  

“I sensed something almost…  _ angelic _ .”  There’s an implied insult in the way he says  _ almost _ .  Given they’re the only two angels in this world, Castiel feels that he comes out ahead.  But now’s not the time to say so.  “Thought I’d take a look,” Lucifer continues.  “And finally, I found  _ you _ .  Little did I know baby brother Castiel would be here too.  Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.  You’ve been obnoxiously in my way for years now.”

Castiel wants to pretend that he, too, is part of someone’s dream.  But it would be a foolish attempt at deception so he doesn’t bother.  “So you survived too?”  He hopes to prod Lucifer to see how much he knows, if he understands the situation as well as Castiel does.

“Apparently.  Though my vessel didn’t survive the trip.”  He leans forward menacingly.  “Two Deans, hmmm?  I wonder if that means there are two Sams here as well.  I do tire of jumping from vessel to vessel.  After you’ve had your true vessel, nothing else quite compares.  Just poorly tailored suits when I’ve had the pleasure of Armani.  I mean, you liked your vessel so much you’ve made it permanent, so I know you understand.”

_ Wake up wake up wake up,  _ he begs himself.  Nothing happens.

“But I’ve looked and looked.  There appear to be no  _ Winchesters _ to speak of in this world.  Yet you dream so easily of a second Dean.  As though you’ve  _ met _ a second one.  So tell me, Castiel.   _ Where _ are you hiding them?”

He reaches for Castiel with dark intent in his eyes.  Castiel’s mind goes to when he watched Lucifer kill that other Castiel, and he freezes in terror.  This may be his dream, but with his limited powers of control here, he knows he’s no match for his big brother.  He tries to jerk away but a cold hand grabs him, yanks him off the bed—

\- - - -

Screams do nothing to cover up the pain he feels.  He clutches his right arm to his chest as tremors overtake him.  In his efforts to research the problem at hand, Castiel must have fallen asleep on the couch.  Now he’s paying for it.  He tries to flex his right hand, but his fingers barely respond.  They twitch uselessly and remember the phantom hold Lucifer got on him in his dream.

“Fuck, Cas!” Dean cries as he rounds the corner.  He almost trips over his own feet as he rushes to Cas’ side.  “Scared the crap outta me.  You okay?  You have another nightmare?”

“Not exactly,” he hisses.  With special care, he rolls back the sleeve of his henley to reveal blistered skin in the shape of a handprint.  Not unlike the mark he made on Dean’s shoulder so long ago.  But it hurts like the one he left on Dean never did, because instead of being done at the behest of Heaven itself, this was caused by cruelness of a brother preparing to torture.

“Holy fuck,” Dean breathes out.  His fingers move as though he wants to touch, but he pulls back.  “What the hell happened?”

“Frostbite.”  He uses his good hand to touch the damaged skin.  It tingles and burns and is numb all at the same time.  

“... How the fuck did you get frostbite in my apartment in the middle of October?”  But Dean shakes his head, “Never mind, tell me what I can do to help.”

“Warm water.  Not  _ hot _ , just warm.  Washcloth for now, but fill the bathtub.  I’ll have to soak it.”

Dean only hesitates for a moment, chewing his lip.  “You sure you don’t wanna go to a doctor or—”  Castiel glares at him and the other man snaps his mouth shut.  He makes a face but gets to work.  

It’s unfortunate that he’d taken advantage of Dean’s trust before.  After the drugs and the caffeine, Dean had gone through the entire apartment and gotten rid of anything even remotely addictive, including the painkillers he wouldn’t mind getting his hands on right about now.  

_ Don’t kid yourself, you’d just take half the bottle.  He was completely right to get rid of them. _

Castiel distracts himself from the pain by grabbing some markers and putting up wards around the apartment.  He should’ve done this sooner, but they at least had the benefit of being off of Lucifer’s radar.  Now that he knows his brother’s actively looking for them, there’s no excuse for it.

Of course, it’s incredibly difficult to draw them with his left hand, but the right one won’t cooperate.

“What are you doing?” Dean asks as he puts a warm washcloth over Cas’ arm, holding it in place while Castiel continues to write.  He doesn’t sound angry at Castiel for defacing his walls, just genuinely curious.  

“I’m putting up protective wards and sigils that’ll help keep any unwanted guests from popping in.”

“Okay, well, when you’re done, the tub’s almost ready.”

Castiel meticulously goes from room to room and makes sure they’re all secure.  Dean follows him to keep the washcloth on his injured arm.  It looks like he’s trying to memorize each line as Cas draws them.  Given how smart Dean is, Castiel has no doubt he’ll be able to re-create the sigils on his own if need be.

By the time he’s heading to the bathroom, his arm is feeling much better.  He can’t tell if it’s  _ actually _ better or if it’s gone numb or if he’s simply used to the pain.  (Or if Dean’s presence is enough to make him feel better.)  As he submerges it in the water, though, it comes alive in agony.  

He grits his teeth and bears it, not wanting to let Dean see how affected he is.  

It comes as no surprise when Dean sees through it.

“That looks pretty bad.  How long is that gonna take to heal?”  

Castiel shrugs as he flexes his hand under the water.  “No idea.  If I were completely human, probably a month or so.  Maybe half that time if I’m lucky.”  He ignores the question Dean was really asking:  _ Should we go to a hospital? _  The answer will always be no.

“So what exactly happened?”

“You know my nightmares?”

“‘Course.  But nightmares don’t give people friggin  _ frostbite _ .”

“Says the man who admitted to killing a ghost and finding buildings and people have disappeared from existence.”  Dean’s eyes go wide but he remains silent.  “I’ve been dreaming of a great many things, but apparently one of those things wasn’t so much a dream as a window into Lucifer’s eyes.  I’ve been seeing—”

“Wait, hold up,” Dean interrupts.  “ _ The _ Lucifer?  Like the actual, literal devil?  You’ve got some sort of connection with the devil?  You brought  _ the _ Lucifer with you from your world and you’re just chill as a cucumber about it?”

“Lucifer’s my brother,” Castiel explains patiently.  “One of them, anyway.  It’s not so ridiculous to think two angels might have a connection to each other.  Especially if we’re the  _ only _ angels in this world, as we appear to be.  And I didn’t  _ bring _ him with me.  He likely ended up here the same way I did.”

Castiel keeps his eyes fixed on his arm, the skin angry and red beneath the surface.  The physical pain is such a vivid reminder of the life he was forced to leave behind.  “Lucifer’s already taken everything away from me.  There’s nothing left but my life, and there are times I don’t exactly value it that highly.  So forgive me for being ‘chill as a cucumber’ but there’s nothing I can do about it beyond what I’ve done, so why make a fuss?”

“Well that’s fucking great, Cas.  What the fuck am I, chopped liver?”  The cold fury in Dean’s voice is an eerie reminder of Lucifer’s.

He doesn’t answer.  Possibly because he’s scared to.  The only reason he cares at all about what Lucifer does to this world is because Dean’s in it.  If it weren’t for him, Castiel would be getting high and waiting for Lucifer or a Croat or a demon to put him out of his misery.

“ _ Fine _ , don’t fucking answer.  Don’t give a shit that Lucifer’s killing people and making them disappear and whatever else he’s doing.  Just sit there feeling sorry for yourself and hide.  Take the easy way out of this and leave the rest of us to suffer for it.”

Again, Castiel doesn’t have anything to say for himself.  Dean’s not wrong that Castiel has no intention of doing anything, though he misunderstands the situation and thinks Lucifer’s responsible for the misfortunes of this world.

If only.  As horrible as it would be for humanity, at least the world itself would continue to exist.  And there’d still be hope, as small as it is.

Dean misreads his silence as apathy instead of resignation and starts storming out of the bathroom.

“Dean!”  He reaches over and grabs the other man’s hand, holding it tight and pulling him back into the room.  “Whatever you might think of me, believe me when I tell you that Lucifer’s dangerous.  Promise me you won’t leave the apartment until I’ve had the chance to ward you or make a protective charm or something for you.”

“Whatever,” Dean scoffs at him and forcibly pulls away.  

Castiel tells himself it’s for the best.  Let Dean see him as the broken man he is.  Let him stop caring for Cas, tempting him with things he can’t have.  That even if he  _ wanted _ to have, the fate of this doomed world will never give him time to enjoy.  

If it’s for the best, why does it hurt so damn much?

\- - - -

“I got bandages for you,” Dean says without looking over from his phone.  He’s taking pictures of all the sigils.  It’s likely just a precaution, but Castiel can’t help but worry it’s a precursor to being kicked out.

Castiel’s halfway through wrapping the gauze around his arm when Dean finishes his pictures and comes over to help.  

“You really don’t care that Lucifer’s running amuck here?  Just because Dean friggin Winchester doesn’t live here, you don’t care about any of us?”

“There’s nothing I can do,” he reiterates.  “I couldn't stop it before and I was an actual angel.  What chance do I stand now that I'm human?” 

“I dunno Cas, but us humans have done some pretty remarkable things.  Maybe you shouldn't consider yourself down for the count just yet.”

This conversation hurts and he wishes it were over.  “Your faith in me is completely misplaced.”  Just like his Dean’s was.  “I… I would help if I could.  It’s not as though I’m unmoved by the plight of the people in your world.”

“You’ve just given up.”

Part of him  _ wants _ to give up.  This world is nothing more than a complex illusion meant to teach the  _ real _ Dean Winchester a lesson.  And now it’s dying or being erased or whatever, what's the point in trying to stop Lucifer?  This world will fall apart before he can cause too much trouble.

Except…  He kind of hates the way Dean's looking at him.  After the drugs and not wanting Dean the way Dean wants him, there was never so much disappointment or disdain in his eyes as there is now.   _ This _ is what will make him lose Dean Smith irrevocably.  Whatever the muddled feelings he may have for the man, he will  _ not _ lose him.

Cas never was good at saying no to Dean.

“I'll… I'll help.”

Dean's whole face lights up and it's breathtaking.  Cas wants nothing more in that moment than to close the distance between them and kiss him.

“Really?”  Dean's so hopeful all Cas can do is nod.  “Okay so what’s the plan?”

“Uhh….”  He hadn't really thought that far ahead.  “Stop Lucifer?”

“No shit, but that’s more like a  _ goal _ .”  Despite his obvious exasperation, some of his usual fondness is back.  “We need an actual  _ plan _ .  With like… steps to take.”

“Well unfortunately that’s all I’ve got.  If I knew how to actually  _ kill _ Lucifer, I wouldn't even  _ be _ here right now.”  He doesn't say it, but he thinks of Dean Winchester and how he'd still be alive and maybe, with Lucifer dead, he'd have been able to start finding peace.

Unlikely, but it's a pleasant thought.

“So what do we do?  If we can't kill him, can we stop him or… or slow him down?”

It occurs to Castiel that killing or even permanently stopping Lucifer is unnecessary.  They just need to slow him down enough that this world can continue on unmolested until it's inevitable demise.  He can't  _ save _ the people here, but perhaps he can buy them a more pleasant end to their days.  One free of suffering and fear of the devil coming to get them.

He starts brainstorming out loud, trying to come up with an idea as he goes.  “The cage is out of the question.  The colt was useless.  But if we’re looking for short term solutions, maybe we could bind him to a vessel and then cast that vessel somewhere out of harm’s way.”  

Castiel doesn’t bother adding the laundry list of difficulties with that plan.  Never mind finding the spell, but  _ finding _ Lucifer and taking him by surprise long enough to use whatever spell they manage to find.  Then thinking of a reasonably safe place to stick him where he can’t get into too much trouble.  And having some sort of backup ready should their plan fail...

An image of Lucifer stalking towards Dean with murder in his eyes—

**_No_ ** .   _ I will make  _ **_sure_ ** _ before we do anything.  I’ll sacrifice myself before I let any harm come to Dean. _

_ Careful, Castiel.  That almost sounds like a declaration of love.  It’s getting harder and harder not to pretend you don’t actually care about him. _

There’s no suitable rebuttal to that.  

“Okay,” Dean interrupts his thoughts.  “So we set a trap for the devil.  How do we find a spell or whatever to do that?”

“Research, I suppose.”  This angel-less world is unlikely to have anything suitable already laid out, but Castiel already has some ideas for relevant spellwork he can modify.  He’d looked into it before, when the world first started to fall into chaos, but Dean had dismissed his work as a waste of time.  He only wanted  _ permanent _ solutions.  Anything else wasn’t worth the effort.  

“Okay, cool.  Sam and I had to do that for the ghost thing.  It must be hard to research that sorta thing because where do you even  _ look _ for spells like that, and how do you trust sources—”

Dean continues on, but Castiel’s mind grinds to a halt, recalling what Lucifer told him in his dream.

Sam.

He wants Sam.

“Dude, what’s wrong?  Feels like I’m talking to a brick wall here—”

“Lucifer is vessel-less here,” Cas says, as if that explains everything.  Because to Dean Winchester it does.  To Dean Smith it’s meaningless information.

“Yeah, you said that.  I don’t really get what that means or how we can use it against him.”

“Lucifer has no permanent body at the moment.  He’ll need one before he can truly proceed with whatever plans he has.  Angels need willing hosts.  Most humans aren’t strong enough to house an angel as powerful as Lucifer.  Not for very long, anyway.  Sooner or later, they burn out, forcing him to jump to the next person.”

“So… we track down who he’s using as a host?  Is that something we can do?  Correct me if I’m wrong, but the way you were talking, I got the impression it was kinda random.”

“Well…”  He licks his lips, thinking carefully about how to word this.  “He has… an  _ ideal _ vessel.  One that won’t decay like the rest.  He lost it when he traveled from this world.  A vessel whose duplicate is available  _ here _ .  In this reality.”

“Awesome.  So we find this vessel and use them as bait?  Draw Lucifer out on our terms, put a whammy on him, and then figure out how to stop him for good?”

“Yes, essentially.”  Castiel braces himself for the inevitable question that follows.

“Wait,” Dean asks, brow furrowed.  “So who  _ is _ his ideal vessel?”

  
  



	13. Chapter Twelve

**Chapter Twelve**

_ “No.” _

They’ve been going back and forth about this for hours, and Dean’s resolve is firm.  It’s adorably familiar, especially the way he half pouts while he does it.

“Dean, there’s little else we can do to draw Lucifer’s attention.”  Aside from using Dean as bait, but Castiel doesn’t dare suggest it.  Dean Smith seems like the type to be just as self-sacrificing as his double, and Castiel refuses to give him the chance.  

“You just wanna throw Sam in there with Lucifer?”  

“You’re as bad as the other one,” he grumbles.  At least they’d been brothers.  But maybe there were things too deeply hardwired into Dean that even Zachariah’s illusions couldn’t overwrite them completely.  

“ _ What? _ ”  Then Dean shakes his head, dismissing the question.  He points accusingly at Castiel.  “You said your Sam  _ died _ .  Did he go up against Lucifer before and lose?”

The sad thing was, Sam hadn’t died, but it was easier to think of it that way.  Easier for him, easier for Dean, easier for the world.  Chuck had accused Dean of being too “Obi-wan” in his interpretation of events (whatever the hell that even means), but Dean had brushed it off.  Because while perhaps not physically not true, the man who was Sam Winchester had for all intents and purposes died the moment he said yes.

“He died  _ because  _ he gave in to Lucifer.  Lucifer can’t actually kill Sam without destroying his own vessel, which he won’t do.  He’s already tired of having to change vessels so often, he’ll want Sam even more than he did before.  Sam is probably the safest person on Earth right now.”

Cas leans over and places a hand over Dean’s.  “He’ll want to help.”  Cas might not know Sam Wesson that well, but he knew Sam Winchester plenty well enough to be confident in his assertion.  “We’ll take care of everything on our end first, and then we can approach him about him.  He’s a big boy, Dean, let him make the choice for himself.”

Dean clenches his fists and grinds his teeth together.  There’s no reasonable counter argument to what Cas has suggested, and it clearly grates on him to admit it.  But unlike the other Deans Castiel knows, this Dean knows when he’s beat.

“I  _ hate _ this,” Dean grits out.  “Fine.  But if we can’t find a spell or whatever to do this, we’re not bringing him in.  Capiche?”

“Of course Dean.”

\- - - -

There’s something familiar and soothing about researching with Dean.  It takes him back to happier days, and he relishes sitting with their shoulders pressed together on the couch as they lean over the tablet.  It’s hard to concentrate, now that he’s imagined Dean Smith naked.  Underneath him.  Inside him—

Ugh,  _ stop _ .

The first thing Cas had done was try to outline the spell he had in mind.  There was little to nothing about angel lore in this world, and it took no more than a cursory look for Castiel know it was all bullshit.  He’s on his own when it came to trapping Lucifer in whatever poor meatsuit he’d conned himself into.  

That doesn’t mean they can’t find banishment spells online.  They’d require tweaking—maybe even combining to get the potency right—but there’s definite potential here.  He jots down ingredients and notes, letting Dean bookmark promising sites while Cas scrawls all over his notebook.  

Absently, he regrets that Jimmy wasn’t left-handed.  It’s painful to use his right hand at the moment, but he grits and bares it.  The whole damn list is barely legible, Castiel’s normally messy handwriting rendered even worse by how easily his arm tires and the tremors it’s prone to.  But he doesn’t give up on it until Dean silently holds out his hand for the pencil and paper.  Only then does he pass off his duties to the other man.

“This shit looks expensive,” Dean says tentatively as they scroll through the website.  Looking down at what they’ve already written, it does seem like it’ll add up quickly.  Strange to think about the  _ cost _ of this sort of thing.  Back when money was still used as currency, Castiel simply took what he needed.  It was a simple matter of locating the items and flying in.  He was doing the Lord’s work, after all.  That seemed like payment in and of itself.  

Even now, Castiel doesn’t much care about the monetary side of things.  He’s never had to work for a dollar, so it’s not like he knows the value of it.  Besides, not like money’s worth all that much once the world gets sucked into a black hole.

“What, are you putting a price on saving the world?” Cas teases.  “But you’re right, they seem to be ridiculously marked up.  I suggest we find a local store to visit and acquire some of these items.  Then I can verify they’re actually authentic before you waste a few hundred dollars—”

“They want twenty five hundred bucks for three harpy feathers,” Dean deadpans.

“—few thousand dollars on ingredients.”  He smiles sheepishly at Dean.  “All for the greater good, right?”

Dean rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue.  Though he does maybe grumble about his Christmas bonus.  

“I promise your hard earned savings will be well spent.  Guaranteed to stop one devil bent on an apocalyptic end to the world.  Some restrictions may apply.”

“Cas…”  His voice is tinged with exasperation.  “Don’t—don’t  _ joke  _ about this.  I know this isn’t your world or anything, so maybe you’re not as invested or whatever, but—”

“I’m sorry,” he says seriously.  And he is.  “It’s not that I don’t take this seriously.”   _ I take it  _ **_very_ ** _ seriously.  If Lucifer were to get his hands on you… _  “I assure you, I’ll do everything I can.”   _ To buy you time.  That’s all I can do.  Buy you time and a chance to go on with your life for a few more weeks or months or years, however long fate has doled out to us. _

Dean sighs and leans back against the couch.  “I know you will, Cas.”  He rubs his eyes and suppresses a yawn.  

They’ve stayed up most of the night and well into the morning.  Castiel’s inadvertently stolen a good chunk of Dean’s sleep.  That’s of course ignoring how draining it must be to plan all this out, especially to someone unused to this type of thinking.

“Go to bed, Dean.”

“I wanna help—”

“Then rest.  I know what I’m doing and what I’m looking for.  I’ll get the list, track down some sellers, and we can reconvene once you’ve gotten some sleep.”

There’s no ignoring the huge yawn that cracks Dean’s jaw before he can even start to protest.  “Ugh,  _ fine _ .  But what about you?  You need to get some sleep.”

“I’ll join you soon,” he promises.  Dean seems about to object, so he quickly adds, “And I’ll get you if I need your help with anything.”  

Dean assesses him for a moment before giving up with a petulant  _ fine! _ and dragging his feet down the hallway.  Cas instantly misses the loss of heat next to him and the quiet way Dean would tap his fingers anxiously on his knee.  The cold silence left in his wake is suffocating, the more painful because it reminds Castiel of what he continues to deny himself.

He goes on autopilot, sifting through nearby locations for ingredients while he mentally recites all the reasons he  _ will not _ get romantically involved with Dean Smith.  It used to be a longer list, but a lot of the reasons are no longer valid excuses.   _ I’m not attracted to him _ and  _ He’s too soft and weak _ .

Even the one excuse of  _ He’s not Dean Winchester _ doesn’t feel as important as it once did.  Because he certainly is  _ not _ the man who died fighting the devil in his brother’s body.  But he’s not  _ less _ for being someone else.  He’s wonderful in a lot of ways Dean Winchester was, and some uniquely his own.  Castiel, whether he’s entirely comfortable with it, feels a pull towards Dean Smith that he wants to give into.

But in the end, it boils down to  _ He deserves better. _

Someone who isn’t a recovering drug addict.  Someone who isn’t a failure or a bum.  Someone who wouldn’t need  _ convincing _ to save the world.  Someone who’d join the Peace Corps and probably had a job working for some nonprofit and would’ve actually been  _ worthy _ of Dean’s affection.

Someone,  _ anyone _ , who isn’t him.

Eventually, Cas pushes all those thoughts aside.  There’s no use in entertaining a relationship with Dean.  Even if there’s a mutual attraction, he can’t act on it.  Shouldn’t act on it.  The man Dean Smith  _ should _ be with is dead.  And because of Castiel, no less.  The whole thing would feel like taking advantage.

“Way to admit you like him just in time to realize you can’t have him,” Cas grumbles to the tablet.  It continues to glow up at him, unaware of his dejection.  Probably for the best.  He doesn’t need the damn electronics judging him as harshly as he’s judging himself right now.

Soon enough he has a decent framework for a spell to trap Lucifer in his vessel, as well as several options for banishment spells.  He can use any of them, depending on what ingredients are easiest to come across.  Or the cheapest, but he suspects Dean’s whining earlier was more for show than out of any real annoyance.  

Holy oil will be the hardest to acquire (if they can find any at all), so Castiel also spends a good deal of time looking at entrapments they can use to at least slow Lucifer down while Cas casts the binding and banishment spells.  If only he could trust Dean to help him, but as capable as Dean Smith is, even a novice spell would likely be difficult for him.  Never mind the type of juice they’d need to slow Lucifer down.  Castiel worries he’ll have to harness some of his life force to do it.  

Granted, he’s not worried out of any concern for his own safety, but rather because if something happens to him there’ll be noone left to protect Dean.

Sleep pulls at the edges of his awareness.  Cas finds himself rereading the same paragraph on what type of crystal is best for focusing one’s aura and decides to give up.  He’s done more than enough due diligence to lay a strong foundation for tomorrow.  Right now he should get to bed, and later he can discuss everything with Dean.  Make sure he hasn’t missed anything important, then worry about acquiring everything they need.

Afterwards, all that’s left is to rope Sam Wesson into their plan.  If he’s even  _ remotely _ based on the original Sam Winchester, that shouldn’t be an issue.  Sam was always willing to help those who needed it.  At least until he lost his way at the end…  But still, the Sam Wesson he met is not the broken man who said yes to Lucifer in Detroit.  He’s vibrant and alive in all the ways that are bittersweet for Castiel to recall about his own Sam.  

Now that he thinks about it, Dean might actually be more of a problem.  

Hit with a sudden burst of inspiration, Castiel sneaks into Dean’s bedroom and swipes his phone from the nightstand.  It takes him a moment to figure out what app Dean uses to communicate, but soon he finds a string of messages.  From there it’s not difficult to navigate to one labelled  _ Sam W. _

Before he can change his mind, he hastily types out a message.

**Dean S: hey remember that ghost thing from a few months back?  i think i found another case.**

**Dean S: way WAY bigger than that one**

**Dean S: super dangerous**

**Dean S: but i could use your help if you’re up for it**

A few minutes later, he gets a response.

_ Sam W: you had me at ‘super dangerous’ _

_ Sam W: i got plans most of the day, but i can swing by your place this evening to talk about it _

_ Sam W: 7 sound good? _

Castiel smiles to himself before sending a quick confirmation.  With Sam actually  _ there _ , it’ll be harder for Dean to speak for him and keep him out of things.  Sam can make his own decision on whether or not to help.  

Although his initial goal was to contact Sam, now that the phone is in hand, his eyes can’t help but wander up to the last strands of the two not-quite-brothers’ conversation.  It’s probably beneath him to snoop, but he help but be drawn to his own name.  From then, it’s all too easy to scroll up and read.

_ Sam W: you two looked cute together _

**Dean S: ugh stop**

**Dean S: i told you not to push, he’s not interested.**

_ Sam W: you asked him? _

**Dean S: yes.**

_ Sam W: well don’t give up hope, i think castiel likes you more than he lets on _

**Dean S: maybe, but he doesn’t plan on doing shit about it so what good does that do me**

_ Sam W: wow bitter much? _

**Dean S: maybe a little**

_ Sam W: seriously dude don’t give up.  castiel’s crazy about you.  he just might not know it yet. _

Cas reads and rereads the conversation, dated to the afternoon while Dean was still at work.  Everything before that’s work related or about the happy hour gathering, though there do appear to be hints that they’ve talked about him before that.  He resists the urge to keep reading and closes out of the messaging app.  Why bother torturing himself further?  He  _ knows _ how Dean feels about him.  

And he’ll continue to ignore it.

He slips the phone back where he found it, re-connecting the charger before he climbs into bed.  If he weren’t terrified what awaited him when he closed his eyes, Cas would go back to the couch.  Both he and Dean could use the breathing room.  

But as he clutches his painfully sore right arm to his chest, he knows there’s nothing that could force him to leave Dean’s side right now.

\- - - -

They’re sitting in the living room, pouring over Castiel’s notes from the night before (morning, technically, since five am is hard to describe as being night), when the phone rings.  Dean frowns slightly when he sees the name, but he answers cheerfully.  “Yo, Sammy.  What’s up?  Hey—”

Castiel snatches the phone away and turns it on speaker phone.

“I’m pulling into the parking garage now.  I brought some pizza.  Hope you don’t mind, but I’m not in a salad mood.  Just have the door open for me, I’ll be up in a minute.”

“What the hell is going on—”

“Thank you, Sam,” Castiel interrupts.  Sam’s voice over the phone speaker brings an ache to Castiel’s chest.  How many times did he communicate with the Winchester brothers like this, in the days before it all fell apart?  But he ignores the feelings of nostalgia this conjures up.  That past wasn’t very successful, anyway.  “That’s very thoughtful.”  

He hangs up before Dean can say more.  

“What the hell is happening?” Dean asks.  The glare he sends Castiel’s way shows he’s got an idea, and he doesn’t much care for it.

“I enlisted Sam’s help.”  He keeps his tone as neutral as possible.  When Dean’s eyes flash in accusation, he merely shrugs.  “We found a spell.  We’re ready to acquire ingredients.  You said yourself that we could ask him to help.”

“I didn’t think you’d go behind my back and invite him over without telling me first.”

There’s a knock on the front door.  Castiel gets up but hesitates.  Leaving things unresolved with Dean has never gone well for him in the past, and letting something like this sit doesn’t feel right.  “Dean…  I’m sorry if I overstepped.  We can of course still choose not to involve him—”

“No, it’s... “  Dean sighs in defeat and collapses in the nearest chair.  “I get it.  He’s important to this whole thing, whether he wants to be or not.  Whether  _ I _ want him to be or not.  And he’s got a right to choose, just like anyone else would.  Let him in and we’ll get started figuring things out.”

Cas has the feeling that was too easy.  But what else can he do but take Dean at his word?  He opens the door and waves Sam inside.  

“Hey Cas.  Hey Dean.  So what’s… this…”  And then he breaks off into an impressed whistle.  The sigils hastily drawn all over the walls draw his attention and the pizza box starts to sag in his hands.

“So you weren’t kidding when you said dangerous, huh?  These protective sigils?”

“Yes,” Castiel says as he rescues the pizza.  Sam doesn’t even notice.  He goes to put it on the kitchen counter and dives right in.  He can’t remember when he last ate.  And though he knows it was within the last twenty four hours, his stomach has gotten accustomed to regular meals.  “I’m surprised you recognized them.  They’re a little beyond what would be necessary to eliminate your run of the mill ghost.”

Sam looks momentarily surprised that Castiel knows anything about it, then his eyes dart over to Dean (who’s glaring murder at Sam) and he looks almost embarrassed.

“I may have uh… dabbled in some supernatural research since the ghost thing.”  He smiles sheepishly at Dean.  “Sorry, I would’ve told you but you seemed pretty busy at work and then the whole...”  Sam cuts off abruptly, blushing as he looks at Castiel and then quickly away.  

“Could’ve at least told me,” Dean mumbles petulantly as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“Well,  _ you _ didn’t tell me Castiel knew about the ghost thing.  I feel like we’re even.”

Castiel quickly finishes his first slice and interrupts the  brothers’ friends’ bickering.  “Don’t mind him, he’s in a mood.”  

“So you hunt?”  Sam’s eyes light up in excitement when he turns back to Cas, appraising him as he considers this new information.  

“I used to.  I stopped around when I started staying with Dean.”  Wiping his hands off on his pants, he motions for Sam to take a seat.  “So about this case—”

Dean’s on his feet in an instant.  “It’s dangerous.  Like, suicidally dangerous.  You don’t wanna be involved or you change your mind later, just say the word.  No shame in wanting out.”

“Okay, well, I’m not sure what you were going for, but all you’ve managed to do is make me more interested.  So spill, what are we hunting?”

The two men share a look.  A silent conversation passes as they try to hand off the responsibility to the other.  In the end, Castiel gives in with an eye roll and heavy sigh.  

“It appears that Lucifer is free and roaming the Earth.  Our plan is lure him in, bind him to his current vessel, and then banish him somewhere he can’t cause any more trouble.  If we take him by surprise, we should be able to succeed.  If he expects this in any way, shape, or form or if we at all err in our spellwork…”  Cas trails off, the dire consequences not needing to be stated.

It’s a highly edited version of what’s happening, but certainly enough to get the gist across.

After a long drawn out silence, in which Sam looks between Castiel and Dean like he expects them to crack up and reveal it’s all some ridiculous joke.  When they just stare back at him, he eventually looks at them incredulously.

“Are you guys fucking with me?”

“Sadly, we are not.”  Castiel rolls up his sleeve and slowly unbandages his arm to reveal the injury.  It’s not nearly as grotesque as it when it first appeared hours before, but it’s still very obviously painful.  And very obviously a handprint.  

“Holy shit,” Sam whispers.  Castiel’s sure that if he weren’t already seated, he’d have fallen over.  “You guys are serious?”

“Unfortunately.”

“That ain’t even the kicker,” Dean says.  “Tell him why you want his help.”

“Why do I have to be the bearer of bad news?”  

Dean quickly reaches over and grabs a slice of pizza, shoving an impressive amount in his mouth.  With as much smugness as one can exude with pizza grease dripping down one’s chin, Dean smiles as he apologetically gestures to his full mouth. 

“That bad, huh?” Sam asks as he eyes Dean.  “I’ve only seen him stress eat carbs  _ once _ , and I’m pretty sure he ran a marathon afterwards just to compensate.”

“Hey!” Dean spits out, but even the lone syllable is nearly incomprehensible.  

Fuck if he doesn’t look just like Dean Winchester right now.  And fuck if Castiel kinda wishes he didn’t.  He likes Dean Smith just the way he is.

He forces himself to pay attention to Sam as he answers.  “Lucifer is looking for a human vessel to occupy.  Some people are better hosts than others.  You, in particular, are an excellent host for him.  Or at the very least, he  _ thinks  _ you are.  That’ll be incentive enough to draw him out.”

That’s a lot for someone to handle, knowing the devil wants to ride around in your body and cast you aside.  That knowledge broke Sam Winchester.  Poor, sweet Sam, who deserved so much more than Heaven saw fit to give him.  

Sam Wesson, however, barely bats an eye.  

“Why me?  Should I feel like… insulted that Lucifer would want me?  It feels insulting.”

“Probably, but it’s not personal.”  And it actually isn’t.  It was very  _ very _ personal for Sam and Dean Winchester, but Sam Wesson has none of that baggage.  He merely mirrors the destiny of another man.  “It’s simply bad luck on your part.  You happen to bear an uncanny resemblance to his true vessel.  A resemblance that will be enough for him to want you, just to see how close a match you are.”

“Well that kinda sucks.  But hey, at least that gives you guys a better shot of enacting your plan, right?”  Sam’s smile is tight but otherwise genuine.  There’s a discomfort there, but it’s well in check.  If he’s at all freaking out, he’s got it under control.

God, has Castiel missed Sam.  Having him back is like having some severed limb magically restored.  And it makes him understand the depths of Dean Winchester’s pain a little bit better.  Because if Castiel, after only a short acquaintance with the young hunter, could miss him so much, it’s nothing in comparison to what his brother would’ve felt.

“Right,” Cas agrees.  “Dean, hand me my notes.  Let’s go over the spells and ingredients with Sam…”


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen**

They eat a quick dinner as Dean explains everything.  While before he was hesitant to bring Sam into the fold, now that Sam’s agreed to help, Dean’s animated in his explanation of what they’ve found.  The murders, the water treatment plants, the bizarre disappearances.  He’s almost proud of himself for noticing it all and putting it together, though he credits Castiel for knowing it’s Lucifer.

“I’ve noticed some weird stuff too,” Sam says between mouthfuls.  He’s eaten half of the rather generously sized pizza himself, and Castiel’s a little in awe.  Sam always ate well, but never so much in one sitting.  And so  _ quickly _ .  Sam Wesson doesn’t so much eat as devour his food.  

“My favorite burger place disappeared.  Kinda like your cafe.  I tried calling in an order and the number was disconnected.  Well, weirder than that.  It didn’t give me an automated message or anything.  I dialed the number and the line was just silent.  Like it connected before it realized there was nothing to connect  _ to _ .  I went there and it was just this like… random piece of forest in the middle of the city.  No one seemed to give a shit, either.  Strangest fucking thing.”

“And you didn’t think to mention it sooner?”  Dean’s got his scolding-big-brother tone that he probably picked up from being Jo’s brother in this world.  It reminds him so much of Dean Winchester that it’s almost painful.  But the longing he used to feel in moments such as this is gone. Or rather, the longing he feels for the other Dean is muted.  Still there but tinged with resignation.  In its place is a longing for  _ this  _ Dean to be himself, to do things that are uniquely  _ him _ .

Because as sappy as it is, Castiel’s come to like him just the way he is.

_ (You always were a hopeless romantic,  _ a voice not unlike Dean Winchester’s whispers in his head.

_ No I wasn’t. _

_ Says Mr. Grand Romantic Gestures himself.  You raised me from Hell, lost your wings and your grace for me, and lamented that you didn’t  _ **_die_ ** _ with me.   _

Cas doesn’t know what to say to that, so he ignores it.)

“Anyway,” Cas says, interrupting their bickering and his own melancholy thoughts, “we should divide up the ingredients and go buy them.  I’ll of course need to make protective wards for all three of us as well.  It’s unlikely that Lucifer will find us on his own, since he hasn’t already, but there’s no reason to risk it unnecessarily.”

Castiel rips the list of ingredients from his journal, wincing slightly as he jerks his injured arm more harshly than he intended, and splits it into three equal portions.  There is a little bit of uneasy shuffling as Sam and Dean eye their own lists and steal glances at the other two.  It goes on long enough that Castiel throws down the bead he’s carving a sigil into.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.   _ What _ ?”

“Can we…”  Dean blushes and looks almost ashamed.  “Can I maybe trade a few items from my list?”

“Ditto.”

Castiel crosses his arms and silently waits for them to continue.

“Well it’s just…  Uh mine says I need fresh rabbit eye, harvested from a female rabbit that’s just produced a litter of at least ten kits.  I don’t exactly feel comfortable cutting out  _ any _ eyes—or organs of any type, actually—and definitely not from some rabbit mom.”

“ _ Fine _ .  I’ll get the damn rabbit eye.  You now need to acquire a silver dagger that’s at least seven inches long.”  Both Dean and Castiel make the changes to their lists, Dean grinning triumphantly.  Castiel sighs and looks to Sam.  “What about you?  What’s wrong with your list?”

Sam’s nose scrunches in distaste.  “It says we need a couple liters of lamb’s blood.  I mean, I can totally get it. It’s just…  I’d rather not?  If at all possible—?”

“You two are  _ children _ .  Fine, I’ll get the lamb’s blood too.  Have fun finding succubus hair.”  Sam perks up a little and Castiel feels the need to add, “They’re not as much fun as you’d think.  Just… try to get it from one of the shops, okay?”

Once Castiel outfits them with their charms and draws wards on their skin, easily covered by clothing but no less protective for how hidden they are, they split up.  There are some Wiccan shops in the area, likely to service hunters as well.  

Sam and Dean head off to visit those, since they do have the more “specialty” items to acquire.  Between the two of them, they need succubus hair, harpy feathers, a silver dagger, a large citrine crystal, dried eucalyptus leaves harvested during a leap year, holly branches, and flower petals.  

(“And a friggin cauldron or something.  No lamb’s blood is going in my nice pots.”)

Which leaves Castiel with the random other assortment of items.  His first stop is a nearby church.  He sneaks in during mass and fills a couple bottles with holy water.  Then he’s left with things like lamb’s blood and rabbit eyes.  A local pet shop sells him a rabbit and a butcher provides the blood.  He kills the poor rabbit in an alley, carefully extracting both eyes and offering the carcass to a lean stray dog licking his chops and eyeing the meat hungrily.

After that, there’s the matter of holy oil.  As he suspected, there’s none to be found in this world.  There are no angels, after all, and Zachariah would’ve been unlikely to include something that could trap him here.  Perhaps if they were in Jerusalem, Castiel could invest a day in searching more thoroughly, but as it is they simply don’t have the time or resources necessary.

But Castiel’s pretty sure Lucifer isn’t aware of the nature of this world’s existence or its tenuous hold on reality.  If Castiel were to trap him in a ring of fire, Lucifer will have no reason to doubt that it’s holy oil.  Cas just needs to find a type of oil that burns similarly.  Of course, should Lucifer try to cross it, it’ll do  _ nothing _ to stop him, but hopefully a show of bravado will slow Lucifer down enough to buy them time.  Every second counts when they’re up against Lucifer.

In the end, the best he can do is oil made from whale blubber.  The consistency’s similar, as is the smell, and it’ll certainly burn.  It’ll have to do.  

Castiel’s the last to arrive back at the apartment.  The others are laying out their haul across the table, double checking it all.  Castiel joins them and sets his bags off to the side for sorting.  Dean eyes them warily, obviously uncomfortable with the idea of animal body parts being inside his apartment.  Oh well.  

“It’s cloudy.  Grab the holly branches and flowers.  I’ve got the holy water.”  Out on the balcony, they wash each branch in the water, then lay them out on a bed of petals to dry.

“This is super fucking specific and random,” Dean grouses as they finish up.  “Like seriously, what the fuck?”

“Welcome to spellwork.  You should see what I can do with a bronze knife and three drops of virgin blood.”

“Oh  _ god _ .”

“Actually,” Sam interjects, “I’m really curious.  What  _ can _ you do with—”

“Do  _ not _ encourage this!”

Sam and Castiel share a look, each wondering who Dean’s warning but both choosing to ignore it.  

“I’ll tell you about it while we set up everything else.”

“Cool.”

\- - - -

“But the Ghostfacers say—”

Castiel doesn’t even bother to be polite as he cuts Sam off.  “I find it extremely vexing that the Ghostfacers exist in this world and are  _ the _ authority on supernatural disturbances.”

“ _ Exist _ in this world?  What does that—Wait, are you saying you  _ know _ the Ghostfacers?”

“Of all the things I’ve said today,  _ that’s _ really where you’re focusing your attention?”  But he can easily read from Sam’s expression that there’ll be no letting it go without more details.  “We’ve met.  Once.  They’re very…”  He struggles to find the right word, but can’t find anything suitable.  Instead he just trails off and lets Sam imagine what he will.

If he’s not mistaken, there’s a little bit of hero worship in the way Sam continues drilling him on various types of spellwork. They’ve been chatting for a while now as they work to bundle up the dry holly branches with the succubus hair (which Sam admits wasn’t as glamorous as he’d initially hoped).  It’s all familiar and (usually) boring topics to Castiel.  After the apocalypse started, Dean would pick his brain for as much information as he could.  It’s part of why he was so hard on Castiel once he started with the drugs.  His wealth of knowledge was useless if he was too high to use it.  

But it doesn’t feel like that now.  Sam’s not using him as a walking encyclopedia.  He’s not putting value in Castiel for what he can  _ do _ .  All Sam’s questions spring from genuine curiosity.  A giddiness that he can  _ talk _ about these things and someone will  _ listen _ and answer his questions without thinking he’s crazy.  

Of course, Castiel enjoys it as well.  Being able to enjoy Sam’s company after so long without it.  Their normal camaraderie not quite there, but there’s the promise of a strong friendship on the horizon.

It’s a shame they’re all going to die when this world collapses.  He’d have liked to become better friends with this Sam.

He’s pulled from the morbid turn his thoughts have taken when Dean starts pushing his coffee table out of the living room.  

“What are you doing?”

“Making room?” Dean grunts out.  “Don’t you need space to lay your booby trap or whatever?”

“We’re not doing that here.”  At Sam and Dean’s confused looks, Cas adds, “I don’t want him knowing your names or where you live.  We need neutral ground, some place devoid of anything pertaining to your lives.  Plus I’ll need to set fire to the floor and I know how much you like this carpet.”

Sam mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like the word  _ married _ .  

Dean kicks him but otherwise ignores the comment.  Castiel graciously pretends not to hear it at all. 

“Where you wanna do it then?”

“Surely there are some abandoned warehouses nearby?  If things go poorly, it would be better for there to be no one around as collateral damage.”

“I might know a place,” Sam offers.  “One of the Sandover buildings about an hour outside the city.  I had to set up the wifi for the offices there, and I think I still know the passcodes for the security system.  It’s pretty big and not near anything but other random buildings.”

“Alright.”  Dean grabs his gym bag and dumps its contents on the floor before packing up everything they need.  “Let’s do this.”

\- - - -

It’s far too easy to sneak into the warehouse and find a decent spot to set up.  Then it’s only a matter of getting things ready before summoning Lucifer.

Sam looks at the wardings Castiel’s drawn out for him, biting his lip in concentration as he tries to replicate them.  That leaves Castiel and Dean to ready the ingredients.  They’ve commandeered the corner of some shelving as a makeshift altar, and the two men carefully lay everything out in the order Castiel will need the items.  It’s easy work, but there’s tension lacing every action.  The three of them might die tonight, and there’s the weight of all the things still left unsaid.  

“You said all angels need a vessel.”  

Castiel sighs, not looking up from the task at hand.  He’d counted it as a blessing that Dean hadn’t pushed too hard on the matter earlier.  

“We do.”

“So this... this  _ form…  _ it’s not you?”

There’s no way to explain an angel’s true form to a human mind.  There are words, of course, but there’s something lost in translation.  He’d tried on multiple occasions to explain it to Dean Winchester, but it never took.  All it earned him was teasing that at least he ended up with a hot vessel.  

Not that it matters.  That form is lost to him now, lost in the void somewhere with the tattered remains of his grace and wings.

He misses his wings.

“It is now.  Ever since I became human, it’s all I have left.”

“Is that… is that why you kept your body when you came here but Lucifer didn’t?”

Castiel starts a little, hands fumbling and nearly dropping the crystal in his hands.  “To be perfectly honest, I hadn’t thought about it.  But I suppose that’s just as likely a reason as any.”

They’re treading towards topics more uncomfortable than this, and he silently hopes Dean will stop here.  Because there are questions that Castiel has answers to, but ones that will no doubt leave a bitter taste in his mouth and leave him feeling like more of a pathetic waste of space than he already is.  

Dean continues laying out the harpy feathers and eucalyptus.  Just enough time passes that Castiel thinks maybe he’s escaped.

“Who was your vessel before you moved in?”

His eyes close at the painful reminder of Jimmy Novak.  A man who deserved so much better than what Castiel gave him.  Who gave up his life on a promise and on faith alone.  “I… I don’t want to talk about that…”

A warm hand between his shoulder blades helps center him.  Castiel leans into it before he’s ready to open his eyes and look at Dean again.  “I’m sorry, but—”

“Hey, it’s okay man.  I’m not trying to pry.”

He reaches around to take Dean’s hand in his.  “I know.  Thank you for understanding.”  He squeezes gently before letting go and trying to busy himself so he doesn’t have to  _ think _ about this anymore.

“What about the Castiel here?”  

The question completely blindsides him.  He actually does drop the dagger.  Dean has to bend down and pick it up for him because Castiel’s still frozen in shock.  

“I-I-” he stutters uselessly.  How much does Dean know?  Did he search for him, once he found out Castiel was an imposter?  Does he know about his death?  Does he—?

“Quit having a heart attack.  I’m not.. He doesn’t…”  Dean shakes his head and turns away.  “I’m just curious.  If he’s some version of you or maybe he’s some version of who your vessel used to be.  I guess you probably don’t know either way.”  There’s a humorless laugh.  Dean faces him again but keeps his gaze down.  

“For what it’s worth…  I knew you were different from that other Castiel.  I didn’t know him well but… Yeah.  Like you maybe have pieces of him underneath it all, but you were  _ you _ .  That’s why it was always kinda easy to believe the stories in your journal.  Cuz you were so different from him.”

Only now does he lift his chin and Cas feels the full weight of Dean’s gold speckled viridian staring into his very essence.  It makes his breath catch, makes his heart want to beat out of his chest, makes him want to do something stupid like kiss him.

But he doesn’t.  He stays quiet and waits for Dean to continue

“I’d always liked Castiel.  He was a good guy.  But then you came around, and you’re just… you’re… Fuck, man, I think I—”

“You ready guys?” Sam interrupts.  Cas and Dean jump apart.  Dean looks like he’s been physically struck and Cas doesn’t feel much better off.  Sam grimaces, knowing he’s interrupted something big but not sure how to undo whatever damage he’s done.  “Sorry, I—”

“Nah it’s alright.  Let’s get this over with.”

“Dean—” Cas reaches for him, wants to soothe the worry lines on Dean’s forehead.

But Dean steps out of reach, brushing off the touch and walking away.  “It’s okay Cas.  We’ll talk after.”

They rehearse their roles one more time—only the tenth or twelfth time they’ve done so since the drive here—and take their places.  Before Sam can get too far though, Castiel pulls Sam aside.

“Sam.  Whatever should happen, you must  _ not _ say yes.  Not to Lucifer, not to Dean, not to myself, not to  _ anyone _ you should see here.  No matter the question, no matter what you  _ think _ you are agreeing to,  _ do not say yes _ .  Angels require permission to enter a host, but that does not mean they won’t lie and deceive to get that permission.  You understand?”

“Ye-I got it Cas.  I’ll be careful.”

With a nod to each other to proceed, Cas starts the incantation for the binding spell.  The cauldron bubbles over the small fire set with the eucalyptus.  The lamb’s blood sloshing around and gurgling as he drops in the rabbit eye.  It glows a rich auburn before it fades into a jet black.  He then dips the blade of the dagger in, coating it thoroughly.

“Show time,” Cas mutters to himself.  It’s too late for pep talks or second guessing himself.  Time to do or die.  He stands up straight and lets his voice reverberate throughout the warehouse.  “I pray to Lucifer, pompous blowhard that he is, to fly his feathery ass out to Columbus so we can have a little chat.”

There’s silence.  It’s unlikely Lucifer wouldn’t have heard him, and even more unlikely that he’d ignore Castiel.  Perhaps they miscalculated.  Overlooked something—

“Ah, baby brother.  There you are.”  The familiar form of the young ginger man appears before him.  His suit is still pristine, but he vessel itself is showing signs of wear and tear.  It won’t last Lucifer much longer, especially not if he uses his power.  Which is likely to make this more difficult.  Lucifer will feel like his back is pressed against the wall, will be more hard pressed to get his hands on Sam.  “So glad you decided to see reason and come have a chat.”

“That’s me,” he says, edging a little closer to Lucifer.  “Mr. Reasonable.”

“Mmhmm,” Lucifer hums, following Castiel’s lead and moving closer.  “Have you considered what I’ve said?  Have any Winchesters to offer me?  Or are you just here to thank me for that parting gift?”  And he gestures to Castiel’s right arm, tucked slightly out of view.  

“Neither?”  And then he dives forward and stabs the silver blade deep into Lucifer’s chest.  Lightning cackles within his chest and it lights up his ribcage from the inside out, showing off lungs and heart decaying from disuse.  Castiel finishes the last parts of the incantation, chanting the lines  _ Mane hīc vinctus in hoc corpore _ over and over as he backs away to safety.  

The flashes become fainter and fainter.  Lucifer just laughs.  “Honestly, Castiel, I thought we were beyond such cheap parlor tricks…”  His amusement quickly sours into annoyance when he goes to pull the blade from his chest and finds it stuck.  Sharp jerks do nothing to dislodge the dagger and Castiel can feel the air electrify as Lucifer tries to stretch his wings and test the limits of the binding.

He must not like what he finds.  The vessel’s features, which he thinks might otherwise have been considered soft or kind, twist into something truly terrifying.  He marches towards Castiel, murderous intent written into every line of his body turned prison.  He’s so focused on Castiel that he doesn’t notice the line of oil on the ground.  Lucifer steps right into the circle.  

Dean darts forward and lights the oil.  Flames spark to life and complete the circle, engulfing Lucifer and the warehouse in their ominous glow.  Lucifer actually looks surprised before he rounds on Castiel.

“You and your pathetic little human, always trying to get in my way.  And for what?  You think this’ll keep me away from Sam?  As if this sad little attempt to bind me could possibly do more than slow me down!”

Well, that’s kinda the point.

Ignoring Lucifer, Castiel moves on to the banishment spell.  He channels his energy through the crystal, tucked safely in his pocket, and clutches both the harpy feathers and bundle of holly.  This spell is no more complex than the previous one, but it will require significantly more of his own energy to use.  Especially if he wants to cast Lucifer more than a few miles away.  

“What does baby bro have planned next, huh?” Lucifer sneers.  He steps dangerously close to the flames.  Another foot and he’ll be able to feel that the fire doesn’t burn or contain him the way it should.  Castiel needs more time.

Cue Sam Wesson.

“I hear you’re looking for me!”

Lucifer’s attention is immediately drawn to the sound of Sam’s voice.  He turns and walks towards Sam, standing at the back wall and looking calmly into the face of the devil himself.  

“Sam.  Good to see you’re alive and well.”  False sweetness drips from each word.  It makes Castiel shudder, but he continues the spell.  Dean comes over to help, scattering the harpy feathers around the nearest stretches of the circle.  Lucifer ignores them as he watches Sam.  He licks his lips and practically leers at him.  “I’ve missed being inside you, Sammy boy.”

“Okay…”  To Sam’s credit, he only looks moderately thrown off.  “That’s, like, seriously creepy.  If someone had told me the devil would make a pass at me like some creeper uncle—”

“Shut up.”  Sam’s mouth snaps shut with a loud  _ click _ .  Finally, he grows pale as he gets a glimpse at the creature he’s mouthing off at.  “I liked you better when you were sniveling helplessly in a corner of your mind.  Let’s see if we can get back to that happy status quo.”

Castiel needs at most a few more minutes.  He doesn’t like using Sam as a diversion like this, but it’s too late to reconsider now.  He closes his eyes to drown out the extraneous sensory input and focus on the spell.  

Some more words are exchanged.  Sam and Lucifer and maybe even Dean at one point, but Castiel drowns it out and keeps going.  He lights the bundle of holly and holds it overhead, conjuring lesser wind deities in the hopes that they’ll help banish Lucifer to the depths of the ocean or maybe the moon or something.  

But then there’s shouting far too urgent for Castiel to ignore.  His eyes fly open and he stumbles over his next few words as he takes in the scene.  The flame is out and Dean’s on his knees by Castiel’s feet, coughing.  Across the space they’d cleared out, Lucifer’s suit is smoldering and he has Sam by the scruff of his neck.

“I’ll deal with you later,” he snarls down at Sam.  “You and I have all the time in the world to get on the same page.  You said yes to me once before.  You’ll say it again before I’m through with you.  You’ll  _ scream _ it and  _ beg _ for me to take you just to end it all,” he promises.

Despite himself, Castiel shudders.  Not for the first time, he wonders what exactly happened to Sam the first time.

As though he weighs nothing at all, Lucifer flings Sam aside.  He zeroes in on Dean next, stalking towards him even as he magically pulls Dean’s body torwards him.  His hands work their way into the collar of his shirt.  The ashen skin on his vessel’s face is stretched tight over the bones underneath.  He looks more like an animated skull than a living creature.

“Dean Winchester.”  Lucifer moves a hand to wrap delicately around Dean’s neck.  “Or is it something different here?  Not a single Winchester to be found in this world, yet somehow Castiel’s managed to find two of you.”

“Fuck you,” Dean hisses then wheezes in distress when Lucifer’s hold tightens.

“Just like the other one, aren’t you?” he asks in delight as Dean squirms in his grip.  His punches and kicks do nothing.  If anything, they make Lucifer’s try harder to squeeze his airway shut.  “As devoted as our dear Castiel is, I’m willing to bet he’ll bend and he’ll break and he’ll  _ bleed _ before he lets anything happen to you.  Aren’t I right, brother?”

Castiel tries to ignore him, tries to continue the incantation.  But then Dean yelps and blood trickles down his cheek as Lucifer digs his nails in and tears at his skin.

“Let him go!” Castiel snarls, stepping forward and abandoning the ritual altogether.  What’s the point of trying to stop Lucifer if it doesn’t save Dean?

“You willing to take Dean and walk out of here?  Leave Sam to me and go back to living out the little fantasy you and lover boy had in our old world?  I’m sure I’d be willing to oblige.  Let you carve out your own slice of Hell while I drag this world down into chaos like I did the last one.  What do you say, Castiel?”

“It’s like you don’t know me at all.”

“You know, I’m actually a little proud of you.  I thought after I killed the last one, you’d be more attached to this one.  Mother henning and all that.”  Dean gasps as his air’s fully cut off.  Lucifer looks down at him and gloats.  “Guess he learned you humans aren’t worth it.  Or maybe he just liked the other one better.”

Castiel flings himself at Lucifer.  The shock of it loosens Lucifer’s hold on Dean more than the attack itself.  But Dean rolls free and that’s all that matters.  He couldn’t save Dean Winchester, but he  _ will _ save Dean Smith.

In any other situation, Cas would consider his next words carefully.  Make them something truly worthy of being his  _ last  _ words.  Ones to be remembered by.  Instead what comes out is an exasperated, “You were always such a colossal  _ assbutt _ .”

His brother reaches for him and gets a hold of his limp right arm.  The flesh there burns anew before it succumbs to icy frost and goes startlingly numb.  The cold spreads to his fingers.  Up his forearm to his shoulder, onward to his heart.

“ABE!” Sam shouts.  Everyone turns to him in utter bewilderment.  He holds the bundle of branches overhead and has the crystal and a scrap of Castiel’s notebook in hand.   “Abe in altissimum altum.  Abe abe  _ abe _ !”

Lucifer screams in agony.  He lashes out with his wings, or as much of them as he can manifest while bound to a dying body, causing the warehouse to shake and creating tremors in the earth.  Cas spares half a second worry that this is going to make things worse, bring the whole house of cards down on them sooner as the seams holding things together rip apart.

But he doesn’t care about any of that right now.  As Sam finishes the spell and Lucifer rages against it, already caught in its hold, Castiel rushes to Dean’s side.  Bruises are already visible under his jawline and he seems dazed.  Castiel tries to lift his hand and gently touch the marks forming, but his right arm doesn’t respond.  The left comes up, tracing Dean’s cheek and cupping his chin.

“Are you okay?”  Dean blinks at him dumbly so Castiel shakes him roughly.  “Dean.  Are you okay?”

Eventually the other man nods.  Crippling relief overtakes him and Castiel throws his good arm around the other man and hugs him tight.  “Thank fucking god.”  And then he can’t help but place a kiss to Dean’s head, so light that hopefully he can’t even feel it.  

With a screech that blows out the windows a good fifty feet above them, Lucifer is swallowed in a burst of blinding light.  When the light recedes, he’s gone.

There’s something oddly satisfying and poetic about Sam being the one to finish things off and banish Lucifer.  

Sam collapses to his knees and looks visibly shaken.  Tired and relieved and maybe even a touch pleased with himself, but shaken nonetheless.  “Okay so like, we saved the world right?”  He looks to Cas and Dean for confirmation.  

The huge grin on Dean’s face is beautiful.  Especially when he’s so close Castiel can see every single crinkle around his eyes.  “I think so.”

Cas doesn’t have the heart to tell them otherwise.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Chapter Fourteen**

It’s no surprise to Castiel what awaits them outside the warehouse.  The night sky shines in menacing shades of violet and crimson.  It might almost be pretty if it weren’t for the jagged lines splitting the clouds themselves.  The color in the world feels muted, at least aside from the harsh tints swirling above them.  

“What the hell?”

“Holy fuck.”

Sam and Dean both turn to Castiel, and he sighs wearily.  “This is just the aftereffects of our encounter with Lucifer.”  It’s also a sign that this world’s decay has accelerated. 

“So… it’ll go away?” Sam asks hopefully.  

“Can we just go back home?”  Cas holds his injured arm and hopes he looks pathetic enough that they listen.  He doesn’t want to be the one to tell them that their efforts were for nothing.  That their victory brought about the end sooner than it would’ve come if they hadn’t acted at all.  Weeks, perhaps even months, have been whittled down to hours.

They have  _ hours _ left in this world before it succumbs to nothingness.

The silence as the drive back into the city is thick and draws on Castiel’s nerves.  Sam drives while Dean keeps sending worried glances at Cas in the backseat.  He’s managed to rip off the sleeve of his right arm, the scratch material excruciating against his skin.  They drop Sam off.  Castiel knows full well this is the last time he’ll ever see the man, so he makes an effort to get out of the car and hug him.

“You’re a good man, Sam Wesson.”

“Uh…”  He awkwardly hugs back, trying his best not to jostle Cas’ injured arm.  “Thanks?  You too, obviously.”

They part and Cas doesn’t let himself linger on the moment.  If he does, he’s afraid he won’t be able to leave.  Dean opens the door for Cas, giving him the passenger seat and helping ease him inside before running to take over at the wheel.

“What’re the chances you’ll let me take you to a hospital?”

“If I had the energy, I’d give you the finger right now,” he quips from where he’s twisted in his seat, slumped against the headrest.  He cradles his arm and worrying about how his dying nerve endings don’t hurt nearly as badly as they did only an hour ago.  

Dean watches him grimly through the rearview mirror before putting the car in drive and heading back to the apartment building.  The sky continues to glow ominously, its tears growing steadily wider.

They barely exchange more than a few words until they’re safely back inside.  As soon as the door’s closed, Dean’s reaching for Cas’ arm and softly checking it over.  If Cas concentrates, he can just barely flex the muscles or make his fingers twitch.  But for the most part, it’s dead weight.  It doesn’t even bother to tingle anymore.

If they did go to a hospital, he suspects they’d suggest amputating the damn thing.  

Dean swallows thickly, eyeing the blisters running up all along Castiel’s useless right arm. “Let’s get you in the tub.”  

It’s too little too late, but Castiel doesn’t complain.  He goes along willingly and lets Dean draw a warm bath.  Doesn’t protest when Dean undresses him and helps him ease his way into the water.  Tries not to smile fondly when Dean starts scooping up water and dripping it over his shoulder.  

“Just relax, okay?  I’m gonna get us some food and I’ll be back with a towel in a bit, okay?”

Castiel hums wordlessly in reply and soaks for a bit.  He expected to be more upset, but he’s already accepted the futility of fighting back.  Why spend the last few hours of his life stressing out about the things he can’t change?  Especially when there are things he  _ can _ still change.

Like how things will end between him and Dean.

“It’s getting worse.”  Dean’s in the bathroom doorway, worrying his bottom lip.  “Outside, I mean.  The skyline’s all messed up because some of the buildings are missing.  The sky’s not florescent purple anymore, but it’s all black and white and I don’t really think that’s any better.  I tried calling Sam but the phones are dead.  Even the internet’s down.”

Cas stands up and Dean’s immediately by his side with a towel and steadying hand.  Dean gives him some boxers and sweatpants, but Castiel refuses the shirt.  His arm won’t cooperate with the sleeve, he just knows it.

Only once he’s seated comfortably on the sofa does Castiel look up at Dean with sad eyes.

“Fuck.”  Dean buries his face in his hands in a moment to collect himself.  “Please don’t tell me this is what happened to your world.  I’m begging you, Cas,  _ please _ don’t tell me that.”

“If I told you otherwise, it’d be a lie.”

There are tears threatening to spill from the corners of Dean’s eyes.  “Did you know the whole time?”

“Yes.  I’m sorry.  I… I’d hoped it wouldn’t happen so quickly, but Lucifer’s tantrum made things worse.”

“How long?” Dean croaks.  He looks so miserable Cas wishes he could do something to give him this world or any other.  

But he can’t.

“Probably a few hours.  I don’t really know.  Your world’s falling apart more slowly than mine did.”  He doesn’t want to explain the rest.  That neither of them were ever real.  Men based off of other men, meant only to prove a point and then be dismissed out of hand.  It’s heartbreaking enough to see Dean react to this much.  Castiel can’t bear to see what he thinks of the rest.

For a split second, despair is etched in every line of Dean’s face, but then it’s gone.  His shoulders and back are a hard line of determination.  

“You wanna smoke?” Dean asks as he goes to the bookcase takes a little wooden box out from behind some books.  

“What are you talking about—?”  Then Dean opens it up and holds a couple of neatly rolled joints.  “Where did you get those?”

Dean shrugs, putting one in his mouth and working his lighter.  “I smoked a bit back in the day.  Mostly forgot I even had these until… y’know.  Thought I should get rid of them when you got rid of your stash as a sign of solidarity but…”  And he shrugs again.

“And you want to get high right now?”

The flame catches and he sucks in a few puffs before letting the air back out.  The smoke billows around him faintly before disappearing.  “Well, I sure as hell ain’t watching the world end sober.”

They turn off all the lights and open up the balcony so they can watch.  The city is ungodly quiet and dark.  The whirlwind above them casts a dim glow over everything, and it’s hard to deny that the whole thing is terribly beautiful.

Throwing himself on the couch, Dean takes another drag of his joint and passes it off to Cas.  Castiel awkwardly takes it in his left hand.  Their role reversal right now is surreal.  It was always him trying to calm Dean down with endless distractions—talk, sex, drugs—and it hadn’t done shit to help.  Now Dean Smith’s looking at him expectantly,  _ hopefully _ , and it’s up to Castiel to decide if he wants to be helped.

He does.

Their tolerance is laughably low.  The two of them barely finish of the first joint before they’re giggling over the second.  Dean tells stories about college and his family, while Castiel corrects some of the biblical tales Dean’s familiar with.  (“Did I ever tell you about the Tower of Babel?”  “Did  _ I  _ ever tell  _ you _ about Rhonda Hurley?”)

After a particularly lively telling of a fist fight that nearly broke out between Dean and Chuck over wasted toilet paper, Dean grimaces and cuts in.  “This other Dean sounds kinda like a dick.  The more I hear about him, the more I want to punch him in the face.”

Castiel’s knee jerk reaction is to protest, to vehemently deny the accusation or dismiss it as slander, but admittedly the impulse isn’t as demanding as it used to be.  Besides, it’s not like Dean’s wrong.

“He was a good man, once upon a time.  He had a lot on his shoulders, and it wore on him.”

“You don’t have to defend him, you know.”

“Yes I do.  If I don’t, who will?”  Then, more quietly, he adds, “I loved him.  I’ve loved him since I first gripped him tight in the depths of Hell and raised him from perdition.  I’ve seen him at his best and at his worst, and I loved him all the same.  It would be cruel to turn my back on him even now.”

Dean considers for a moment, rolling the joint back and forth in his hands.  His voice takes on a carefully neutral tone when he asks, “Loved?  As in past tense?  For a guy who was in a bad way about his beau, you’ve gotten over that rather quickly.”

“Gotten over?  Never.  I don’t think you’re ever supposed to recover from your first love.  But… things may have  _ shifted _ in the time I’ve been here.  Things I thought to be immutable truths turned out to be more flexible than I’d given them credit for.”

“Cas?”  Is that hope hiding in his voice?

He’s come this far.  May as well go the whole way.  “I’ve slowly come to the startling realization that I’m doomed to fall in love with every version of Dean Winchester the cosmos decides to throw at me.  So while I miss Dean Winchester and always will…  I’m finding Dean Smith’s more than enough to ease the ache in my heart.”

“Cas,” Dean breathes out as he leans close.  “Don’t…  You can’t say shit like that unless you mean it.”

Edging forward to meet Dean halfway, he asks, “Who says I don’t mean it?”

The first brush of their lips together is barely anything at all.  More the promise of a kiss than an actual kiss.  They’re both watching the other, intent on letting the other set the pace until Cas growls his frustration and surges forward.  He hungrily steals kiss after kiss, claiming Dean for his own.  

Things escalate quickly from there.  They both seem to sense that things are coming to a close, and they want to be together before it’s too late.  Dean helps strip Cas of his few layers, sucking a bruise on his neck the whole time.  Even once he’s naked, Dean doesn’t stop nibbling and licking.  Castiel has to physically push Dean away with a warning look as he pulls at the hem of Dean’s shirt.  

Dean Smith naked is perfection itself.  As much as he tries to shy away from Cas’ open staring, there’s no part of him that isn’t beautiful.  Castiel gently pushes Dean’s hands aside so he can see everything.  His fingers trace along miles of tan skin and perfectly sculpted muscles.  There’s the same cluster of freckles just below his left hipbone that Castiel knows quite well, but no anti-possession tattoo or scars blemishing his skin.  

Cas only misses the tattoo and marks for a second before he revels in the expanse of unmarked skin now available for him to lavish with attention.  For  _ him _ to mark and lay claim to in any way he wants.

Lips are everywhere, always followed by loving caresses and content sighs.  But then Dean slots their hips together and Castiel cries out in surprise as Dean’s cock slides along his thigh.  He looks down between them, watches Dean thrust into the dip between his crotch and hipbone.

“Can I ride you, Cas?” Dean whispers right in his ear.  “Wanted you to fuck me for ages.”

Barely able to nod, he waits patiently for Dean to find some lube.  He lies down on the couch, mindful of his right arm, and tries not to freak out.  Because god does he want Dean, but he’s never… Never…

Dean’s back and it doesn’t matter anymore.  His cock curves upwards and is already leaking precome as he takes his place over Cas’ legs, straddling him and leaning over him.  Dean rests his weight on his left hand, arm grazing Cas’ cheek, and then uses the other to open himself up.  It’s breathtaking, watching Dean work himself into a flushed, babbling mess.

“Gonna make you come, okay Cas?  Wanna take care of you, you stupid, crazy, beautiful angel.  Want the last thing I ever feel to be your dick inside of me, your come dripping down my legs, your hand jacking me off—”

“ _ Dean _ !” he begs.  If Dean doesn’t stop saying things like that, this’ll be over too quickly.  And he doesn’t want it end.  He wants all those things to be the last thing  _ he _ experiences, too.

“Shhh.”  Dean presses a kiss to his forehead.  “I got you, sunshine.”  His hand thrusts in a few more times before he’s lubing Cas’ cock and lining the head up with his slick rim.  “You ready?”

Castiel bites his lip and jerks his head frantically.  “Please.”

When Dean starts lowering himself down, it’s almost too much.  Too hot, too tight, too much sensation.  He wants to buck up into Dean and go deeper, fill all of him, but he forces his body to stay lax and let Dean handle it.  Soon—only seconds, minutes, years, for all Cas knows—he’s bottomed out and completely surrounded by all things Dean.

Dean takes a minute to adjust, but in truth Castiel needs it to concentrate on not doing something embarrassing like fucking wildly into Dean or coming before they’ve even started.  He’s almost gotten a hold of himself when he notices Dean staring down at him looking very amused.

“Been a while?” Dean teases, clenching around Cas and looking so damn pleased with himself when it draws out a throaty moan.  

“Yes,” he hisses through clenched teeth.  Talking helps, keeps him distracted from how  _ tight _ and  _ warm _ Dean is.  “It’s been eons.”

Dean chuckles and kisses Cas’ temple before abruptly stopping.  “Wait, you’re being literal.  Shit.  Are you saying Winchester never let you—”

“He did not.”

Among his numerous issues, Dean Winchester suffered from a severe discomfort with anything that even remotely questioned his masculinity.  He didn’t like seeming meek, felt like being in any way outside of the narrow picture he’d painted for himself made him somehow  _ less _ .  It barely allowed him to be with Cas at all, but certainly not as anything other than a top.  

“Well damn,” Dean laughs as he slowly lifts himself up and then slides back down.  The feeling is  _ divine _ .  “Now I actually feel sorry for the guy.”  Dean rocks his hips back and forth, sighing happily as he does so.  “Didn’t know what he was missing.”

Dean sets a languid pace after that.  He’ll sometimes pick up speed or slow down to a near stop.  All Cas can do is trace patterns along Dean’s back, suck bruises along his collarbone, and slide his tongue into Dean’s mouth and taste him.  It drives Castiel crazy that he can’t take charge, but he assumes that’s the intended effect.  He’s at Dean’s mercy, and he loves that feeling.  Loves knowing that Dean Smith intends to take care of him and isn’t just using him.  

Strange how much better sex is when both partners are in it for the same reasons.  

“Touch me,” Dean begs as his movements become a little choppier.  “Please, Cas, touch me touch me touch me—”

He wraps his left hand around Dean’s cock and starts jerking him off as best he can, trying to match Dean.  He fumbles a little since he’s never done this with anything other than his right hand before, and all his concentration’s on keeping steady.  Dean takes mercy on him, putting his own hand over Castiel’s and guiding him through it.

“You’re so beautiful, Cas.  So fucking beautiful.  And mine, all mine.”

“All yours,” he agrees.  Funny how that was ever in doubt.  That he even  _ tried _ to deny the fact that Dean Smith’s owned his heart for longer than he’d care to admit even now.  “For as long as you want me.”

As if challenging Castiel’s assertion, a crack of thunder shakes the building.  Dean’s pace falters briefly before he moves faster, desperately trying to get them to the edge.  Cas looks over his shoulder, sees a whole piece of the sky shattering into a thousand shards that rain down upon the pitch black cityscape.  When he looks back up at Dean, he notices that some of the green’s gone out of his eyes and has been replaced by lifeless gray.  

“It’s happening, isn’t it?”  

Cas nods.  Dean tries to look but Cas arches up to steal his lips in a kiss.  “Don’t worry about that.  Focus on  _ me _ .  Look at  _ me _ .  Make love to  _ me _ .”

“Oh  _ fuck _ —”  Dean’s eyes go wide as he comes.  Warmth coats Castiel’s chest and Dean squeezes around Castiel’s cock hard enough that he finds himself coming shortly after.  Dean groans at the feel of warm come inside him, burying his face in Castiel’s neck and squirming slightly until he more or less collapses on him.

He takes the opportunity to run his fingers through Dean’s hair, ignoring the fact that they’re sticky with come.  Cas just wants the contact, these last few minutes together before it’s over.  The earlier crash was only the first of many, now an ever present rumbling as more and more pieces of sky cascade down to the pit of nothingness below.  

“Cas…”  Dean lifts his head.  There’s not a single speck of color left in his eyes.  “I don’t want this to be the end.  I-I love you.  Don’t leave me.  When this world falls apart, don’t leave me—”

“I won’t,” he promises.  It’s beyond his power to follow through on it, but he’ll always do his damndest to get back to Dean.  “I’ll always come for you.”

They hold each other until all light goes from the world.  The last thing Castiel’s aware of is a warm body pressed to his chest and a heartbeat echoing his own.


	16. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Castiel doesn’t much like to sleep.  It’s irksome.  At best a waste of his time, at worst an annoying reminder of when he was human and how far he’s fallen since then.  But sometimes he gets tired now, and it’s easier to give in to a few hours of blissful unconsciousness instead of later suffering the consequences of neglect.

Often he dreams.  It should be beyond him as an angel, but so should sleep, so what difference does it make that he dreams too.  Sometimes they’re even pleasant, though usually he barely remembers more than the slightest image or sound.  Maybe he’ll wake up with a lingering feeling of contentment or perhaps anger or even regret.  But it fades, like all emotions generally do, muted as they are by his grace.

Or  _ most _ emotions.  There are some too strong for even his grace to do more than dull.  And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

When he wakes up on a Wednesday, wrapped snuggly in his bed with the heated comforter Mary was kind enough to get him as protection from the bunker’s cold nights, he actually remembers his dream.  With his eyes still closed and his mind slow and groggy with barely shaken off sleep, he sifts through the memories.  Croatoans and Lucifer and a world in disarray.  Green eyes and soothing words and comfort at the wrong time.  

With a start, he springs out of bed.

As few dreams as he’s had, Castiel knows the difference between them and memories.  And whatever happened to him last night, everything he experienced while unconscious was no dream.  

His feet carry him out his room and down the hall to Dean’s room.  He has no plan, just an aching  _ need _ inside of him to check on Dean and make sure he’s okay.  To see him whole and safe and, most importantly,  _ alive _ .  But as his hand comes up to knock, the door nearly flies off his hinges as Dean swings it open.

“Cas!”  Dean’s relief mirrors his own.  He wonders what drives the hunter’s urgency, though he suspects he already knows.

To his utter astonishment, Dean’s hands come up and grip Cas’ right arm, pulling the sleeve of his borrowed shirt up so he can inspect the skin.  Disappointment and confusion flicker across Dean’s face, and he looks at Castiel apologetically.

“Sorry, buddy.”  Then he awkwardly pats Cas’ arm and steps back.  “Had a weird dream.  Thought you were hurt… Glad you’re not,” he finishes lamely, his embarrassment clear.

It’s an easy out and he knows it, but Castiel’s better judgement loses to the double sense of longing he feels.  Both Dean’s soul and his grace yearn for each other, stretching outward from their bodies in an effort to join, to brush against each other if not outright mix.

“It wasn’t a dream,” he blurts out.  He should regret it, and still could possibly take it back.  But he truly doesn’t want to.  Because whether they acknowledge it or not, they both have those memories.  They each know how  _ good _ things could be, if only they can be brave enough to take these next few steps.  

Otherwise the possibility of what was will haunt them forever.

Dean licks his lips.  “You sure?  Cuz I ate some bad nachos last night and I kinda dream crazy when that happens…  So if you say it was a dream, I’ll believe you.”

A final chance to back out.

Fuck backing out.

“You look good in colorful dress shirts and suspenders.  It was also nice to see you eating healthy for once, though perhaps you shouldn’t take it to such extremes.  And I enjoyed spending so much time with you, uninterrupted by hunters or worldwide catastrophes…  Well, except for perhaps that one at the end…”

Dean moves forward so that their chests are almost touching.  The almost contact has goosebumps prickling along Castiel’s skin, but he doesn’t dare react otherwise.

“Cas,” Dean breathes, the air ghosting along Castiel’s cheek like a caress.  “That was real?”  When Castiel nods, Dean leans in even closer.  “If it was real, why here?  Why now?  I killed Zachariah  _ years _ ago.”

“Why ever?  Time doesn’t quite work the same way in those fake worlds.  It moves as it pleases and doesn’t necessarily line up with the ‘real’ world.  You yourself experienced the life of Dean Smith for weeks and weeks, yet only a few hours had passed here.  Unless you’re willing to unweave the fabric of this very world to find out how that one was tethered to it, there’s no way to know.”

“But it  _ was _ real?”  His words come out strained.  He closes his eyes and swallows thickly to try and steady himself.  “All of it?”  

“I suppose that depends on what you remember…”

Dean’s eyes flicker down to Cas’ mouth.  “I’ve always remembered being Dean Smith in that fuckjob Zachariah’s little play world…  But now I remember him telling you that he…”  Dean struggles to keep from looking away or his voice from wavering.  “I told you I loved you.”

They’re standing inappropriately close together.  With all the times Dean’s tried to ingrain the concept of “personal space” into his head, Castiel’s painfully aware that this isn’t normal.  Or platonic.  

“You did,” he confirms.  

Pink spreads across Dean’s cheeks, bringing out his cheekbones and accentuating the color of his lips.  Castiel’s always enjoyed Dean when he blushes, the more so for how rare it is to see.  

“Did you mean it when you said you’ve loved me since Hell?”

“Yes.”  It’s not as burdensome of a confession as he once believed it to be.  “It took me some time to figure it out—”

He’s cut off when Dean closes the scant inches between them, pressing their foreheads together.  “Cas…  Don’t- don’t say that unless you mean it.  I can’t…  How am I supposed to go on remembering what you smell like in the mornings?  Or being allowed to touch your stubble?  Or knowing what it feels like with you inside me? It was bad enough before when I only  _ imagined _ it.  Now that I  _ know _ …”

There’s a slight movement of Dean’s nose against his own.  It’s dangerously close to nuzzling and Castiel simply doesn’t know what to think of that.  “But those are someone else’s memories.  I can get over that, I think.  Eventually.  Don’t- don’t  _ do _ that here if it’s not something I get to keep.  There’s no going back if we do this… I  _ can’t _ go back.  I  _ won’t _ go back if you let me have it.”

Cas stands there frozen.  He wishes he was that other Cas who was so much more human, so much more capable of knowing what to do or say in situations like this.  This moment is precious, open to so many possibilities but so easy to shatter and ruin forever.

_ Kiss him _ , a small voice inside him hisses.   _ Kiss him, you idiot! _

So he does.  Neither reacts after the first press of lips, but then they move together and sigh happily into it.

Sparks fly from the overhead lights as the light bulbs burst and spray glass all over the hallway.  

“Holy  _ crap _ ,” Dean gasps when they pull apart, marveling at the display of grace.  “Let’s do that again.”

They do.  Again and again and again.

* * *

**Bonus Scene 1**

**Sam:** *walks into the kitchen for breakfast*  I had a strange dream where me and Dean worked in an office building and Cas was a really depressing hippie and we tracked down Lucifer, but Lucifer was in a vessel that was like… some random ginger kid?  Weird shit.

**Dean and Cas:** … Yes.  Very strange dream.  Totally didn’t happen in some alternate versions of events.  We did not also experience this dream.  Haha Sam and his crazy dreams.

**Sam:** What?

**Dean and Cas:** What?  Nothing.

**Sam:** …… Why are you two sitting so close together?

**Dean and Cas:** *shrug, then move closer together*

**Sam:** ….. WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING!?

 

**Bonus Scene 2**

**Mary:** Boys?  Why are all the lightbulbs by Dean’s room broken?  Did something happen—

**Sam:** *putting an arm across the doorway to keep his mom out of the kitchen* Do  _ not _ ask them.  They’re being all giggly and weird.

**Mary:** … Weirder than they usually are around each other?

**Sam:** *hesitates*   _ Different _ weird.  

**Mary:** *smiles knowingly* And giggly?

**Sam:** *very seriously* Yes.

**Mary:** Oh honey, you’re adorably clueless.


	17. Art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here is the lovely art made by [thearronaut](http://thearronaut.tumblr.com) for this story. The art post can be found [on tumblr](http://thearronaut.tumblr.com/post/159234156065/title-when-worlds-collide-author-jhoomwrites) as well.

 

_Cas smoking a joint while contemplating the turn his life his taken._

 

 

_Lucifer finds Cas while Cas is dreaming._

 

 

_Dean and Cas realize Dean's world is doomed._


End file.
